Life in the League
by Tahimikamaxtli
Summary: A collection of short stories and one-shots that chronicle the lives of the various Champions in the League - before and after they joined. Separate from my other stories, and I will update whenever something new comes to mind. They will not be in chronological order, but I will try to keep them canon to my own universe. Will span all genres (friendship, humor, romance, etc.)
1. Being Human

Ahri: Being Human

Even from outside, she could tell the pub was loud and lurid. The boisterous laughter of a hundred men and women clashed with the clinking of plates and the clattering of cups. A perfect place for her next meal. Her sensitive ears – tucked securely away beneath the hood of her cloak – quivered at the sounds that rang out from the building as if in annoyance. Her nose twitched as she inhaled the enticing aromas from within, and her stomach growled traitorously.

She had been without _real_ food for close to a week now, and the essence she had stolen from her last victim could only sustain her for so long. Soon, she would need to replenish – on both real food as well as the life essence she so desperately depended on for survival. She drew the cloak tighter around herself as a particularly chilly draft lifted its hem. It was a difficult task to accomplish; the nine white tails that she had been hiding beneath the cloak were not ones that could be easily hidden.

She considered waiting until the pub had thinned out a little before entering, but another rumble from her stomach changed her mind as a pang of hunger almost made her double over in pain. Taking a deep breath – and with one last look at herself to make sure she was as covered as she could be – she stepped inside.

* * *

She had been in many pubs like the one she was in now before. They were always the same: a large counter extended the length of the far wall, with only a small break to make space for the young pretty waitresses to parade food and beer out onto the floor. As always, a partially hidden door could be seen in a far corner – as always – leading to the second floor, where she knew she would find the rooms.

The conversation in the pub faltered only a small amount as she entered, but she knew that it did the same for any newcomer. Sure enough, it quickly returned to the level it had been before she had entered. She made her way over to the counter, making sure to catch the attention of as many men as possible. A trace of a smile lifted her lips as she sat down on the counter, and she knew that if she were to turn, she would find a good portion of the bar staring at her. Or a part of her, at least.

The bartender gave her only a passing glance before he looked back down at the glass he was cleaning. He gave an unimpressed grunt as his hands cleaned it mechanically.

_Probably married,_ she thought ruefully to herself. _Loyal, by the looks of it._

"What can I do for you?" he asked gruffly, though not unkindly.

"Nothing. I don't have any money," she said with a shrug.

"Then how do you expect to pay?" he asked, though the expression on his face told her he probably already knew the answer.

She smiled. "I think at least _one_ of these good gentlemen here wouldn't be above paying for a pretty girl?" she asked sweetly.

The bartender laughed shortly. "I'm not sure about 'good.' They're soldiers, and I've seen what they do to pretty girls like you."

She smiled wolfishly. "Well, you haven't seen what I can do to them."

"And I don't want to, missy."

She was about to reply when a particularly loud whistle caught her attention. Giving the bartender one last meaningful look, she turned around in her stool, crossing her legs.

_Bingo._

There was a group of about six or seven men sitting at a table in a far-away corner of the pub, and they motioned for her to come. Like the bartender had said, they looked like soldiers, and some were still wearing traces of their armor and uniforms. She smiled at them.

"Wish me luck," she whispered over her shoulder to the bartender as she stepped off the stool to walk over to the men.

"I get the feeling you don't need it," he muttered from behind her as she left.

She blew him a kiss as she walked away from the counter. The men shifted in their seats as she approached, making room for her. She sat down at the chair they offered, and looked at each one of them in turn. Most of them looked like so many she had seen before: brutish, with dirty faces and a hard, hungry glint in their eyes as they looked at her. But one caught her attention – he was seated across the table from her, and looked like he was desperately trying to avoid meeting her gaze. He was undoubtedly the youngest of the group, and could not have been much older than sixteen or seventeen.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here?" asked one of them, and she hid a grimace as his hot, beer-scented breath blew in her face.

"Just looking for a meal," she said sweetly. "I was wondering if one of you would be so chivalrous to buy me something to eat."

It was as though a bag of coins had been dropped on the table; suddenly, all of the men were standing and gesturing for the waitresses to come and bring her a meal. All except the young one, that was. He was still seated, staring pointedly at his own food and avoiding her eyes.

_I found you_, she thought playfully.

"Thank you _so_ much," she said once they had placed smoking plates of food before her. She ate ravenously, and she knew many of the men hid their amused expressions at her appetite.

"You're quite the eater," said one of the men, wincing as two of his compatriots punched him on the arm at the same time.

She wiped her mouth daintily. "I was hungry," she said simply.

"Well, we bought you some food," said another. "The least you could do is lower that hood of yours and show us your pretty face."

She smiled. Men were always the same. Raising delicate hands, she lowered her hood. The eyes of the men fell onto her pale skin and delicate features, and she could almost feel their eyes trace the path from her own eyes to her cheeks to her lips, and finally, to the crook of her neck. Some lingered on her midnight hair, but not on the ears that danced on her head.

For they could not see them. She had hidden them with a trace of her magic, and they were hidden from view of all that saw her. Her ears and her tails were all that she hid – to hide much else would exhaust her energy faster than she would like. And besides, she knew that many men liked how she looked. No need to change what served her purposes.

She batted her eyes, and she saw many of the men swallow.

"You're very pretty," said one of them dumbly, and she smiled at him.

"Thank you."

His vacant grin almost made her laugh. So did the spiteful glances the others cast at him. Suddenly, she yawned, stretching her arms over her head theatrically.

"I'm really tired," she said as sleepily as she could muster. "Would any of you mind sharing a room with me?"

She bit back a sigh as the table erupted in noise once more, each of the men vying for her attention. Instead, she turned her gaze on the one who had stayed quiet. The young one.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, and the noise of the table died as she spoke. He looked up at her quickly – almost fearfully – before looking back down at the table. She heard him mumble a name, but pretended not to hear.

"What was that?" she asked, angling her head.

"Hanna."

"Hanna? That's a nice name."

"It's a woman's name!" said another man with a guffaw, and the rest of the table erupted in laughter. Hanna's face turned a dark red, and she felt almost remorseful at having asked.

"Well, Hanna? Do you have any space in your room for me to spend the night?" she asked almost fiercely. The other men at the table looked as though they had been punched. One even had his jaw open comically.

"Him?" sputtered the man to the left of Hanna. "He's not even a man yet! He's only seventeen! Hell, I don't even know if he's been with a woman before!"

"What are you talking about?" she said, letting a hint of ice seep into her tone. "I just want a bed for the night."

The others stared at her in dumbfounded silence as she made her way sleekly over to Hanna. Before he could protest, she had slipped her arm into his own and pulled him to his feet.

"What do you say?" she whispered in his ear. "Have room for one more in your bed?"

She did not let him reply. Instead, she prompted him forward with a little nudge, and she felt him walk robotically to the door leading to the second floor. She pressed herself close to him as they passed the tables, admiring his musculature. He may have been young – and still may have had some of his youthful scrawniness – but he was a soldier nonetheless. His arm was like an oak bannister, and his hands were firm as she ran a light finger over them. He was a strong young man.

_You'll do just fine,_ she said to herself. _Yes… you'll do just fine._

The second floor was far dimmer than the first, and the sounds from below were muffled slightly by the wooden floor. Though it was for the most part quiet, her sharp ears picked up the sounds of less scrupulous nighttime activities. Hanna did as well, if she were to judge by how the flush on his face grew even darker as they passed rooms with locked doors.

"You have nothing to be afraid of," she whispered in his ear once more. "I won't _bite_."

"I'm not afraid of that," he said quickly, his voice shaky. "I'm afraid of what else you're going to do."

She laughed, throwing her head back as she gave his arm a playful squeeze.

"Clever boy," she said with a grin. "You've got wit. I like that."

"We're here," he said weakly as they arrived at the room furthest from the stairs. "This is my room for the night."

"Then what are you waiting for?" she asked, nudging him. "Open it up."

She could see how his hands shook as he opened the door. She followed him inside, her sharp eyes picking out the shapes in the darkness. She saw the simple bed tucked away into a corner, and the plain counter beside it that held the single candle.

_Perfect. _

She waited until she had heard him lock the door behind them before pushing him backwards onto the bed. He fell onto it heavily with a small cry of surprise.

"What are you-," he stammered as she clambered onto the bed with him.

"What do you think I'm doing?" she said breathlessly as she kissed him.

"I thought you said-," he began once she had broken the kiss. The rest of his question trailed off into a groan as she kissed the skin behind his ear. She could smell his cologne, and it was far more pleasant than she had imagined. She had chosen well.

"I lied. They weren't going to leave us alone unless I did."

Now she was atop him, her arms pinning his own over his head. She pulled his shirt over his head, kissing him teasingly on the neck. Her fingers danced across the skin of his chest, digging in slightly and leaving long red marks with her nails.

"Listen, whatever your name is," he stammered breathlessly. "I've never done this before-"

"Don't worry."

"It's not that, it's just, I don't know what to- I don't know if I-"

She silenced him by placing her finger to his lips. "I said, don't worry."

She thought she heard him whimper as she removed the rest of their clothing. Then she maneuvered herself until they were both beneath the covers. She could feel the heat of his body press against her own, and it sent tingles across her flesh.

_He's like a puppy,_ she thought with a grin as she felt his fumbling hands run over her skin. She used her own to lead him, placing them on her hips. She shuddered in delight as she felt his fingertips dig into the small of her back. Just above her tails.

"Just relax," she whispered as she pressed her cheek to his. He gave a groan – nothing more than an exhale of breath – as she pushed herself onto him. She closed her eyes with a slight gasp of her own as she began to move atop him. She let her lips part with a contented sigh as they began their dance. His hands moved frantically across her body, shaking and trembling. His hair tickled her nose and she could feel his lips flutter against the skin of her cheek and neck. One of his hands came up to grip her hair, leaving it disheveled and messy. Just how she liked it. Every movement was a delightful agony, every smallest measure of contact sending lightning bolts of pleasure through her. Every part of her was sensitive, and the sensations he triggered were almost overwhelming.

_This_ was what she lived for. This was the pleasure she craved – and the one she needed to survive.

Already, she could feel the pressure building in her chest. It was the same pressure that came every time she did this. Every time she hunted, every time she took her victim, every time she stole the life essence she so desperately needed to live.

Every time she killed.

Soon, it would be time. At the peak of his pleasure, she would drain him of everything. She would leave him as nothing more than a dried husk of flesh and he would be nothing more than another added to the list of all the other nameless ones she had done the same to.

As she thought of what she was going to do, a feeling she had never felt before struck her deep in her chest. It was not the pressure she was used to – it was something else entirely. It felt as though an iron fist was gripping her heart and squeezing, and she found that it was hard to breathe. It pained her and gave her pause.

_What is this? _She thought frantically as panic gripped her. She could not question it further, as another feeling overtook her. Like the other, it was one she had never felt before. But it was also one that was infinitely more pleasant. Euphoria like nothing before washed over her, and for an undeterminable moment, she was lost in the ecstasy. When she had recovered, she found herself lying atop his rapidly rising and falling chest.

Her breath was ragged as she listened to the steadily slowing beat of his heart in his chest. She could not stop the tears that stung at her eyes.

_Was I really about to kill him?_ She asked herself as she listened to the steady tattoo of his heartbeat. It was such a lovely sound. How could she have ever done it? She closed her eyes tightly against the tears, her hand curling into a fist on his chest.

Slowly, she felt him take her hand in his, and he kissed her fingers. His other hand came up to her face, wiping away the tears that had made it through. His fingers caressed her cheek lightly, their touch like feathers on her skin.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

She bit her lip, shaking her head. She could not tell him. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, everything would spill out at once. She was not used to these emotions. From her life as a fox to now, never had she once questioned her actions. They were necessary to survive, so she never felt remorse.

But now, as a human, she was different. She had done it so many times before. Why could she not do it now?

"Nothing," she managed finally, her voice choked and small.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, suddenly fearful. She chuckled tearfully.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing."

"I-"

She heard the break in his voice and looked up. He was looking at something behind her with a frightened expression on his face. She looked over her own shoulder to see what it was that had frightened him.

And she froze.

Her tails were fluttering in the dim light of the room, clearly visible. She felt his breath catch in his chest, and the hand that held her fingers began to shake. The magic that kept them out of sight must have ended.

"What are you?" he whispered.

"I'm a monster," she whispered back, just as quietly. "I kill men and I take their life essence. I don't know how many times I've done it."

She closed her eyes, certain that he would attack her or shout for help. But he did not. Instead, he renewed his grip on her fingers.

"Why?"

"I must. I'll die if I don't. If it's not you, it'll be someone else. I always find another."

She felt him sit up in the bed, pulling her into a seated position as well. He had wrapped his arms around her, and the warmth was welcome to her.

"I'll help you," he said firmly. "There has to be another way. A way without killing."

"There isn't," she whispered.

"If there isn't, then we'll find one anyways."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm not."

She lay her head against his chest, listening to him breathe. Behind the pain in her chest, there was something else. A glimmer of hope that warmed her from within. Perhaps there was another way.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly, breathing the question into her hair and against her ear. She felt his breath and his lips stir her hair. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply.

"Ahri."


	2. Playing with Fire

Brand and Annie: Playing with Fire

The room was lit by fire.

Crackling tongues of flame cast dancing shadows on the wall, and they moved like dark snakes over the marked stone surface. In the middle of the room atop a short platform, there was a large cylinder of light that pulsed and hummed with a low sound, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. Within the cage, there sat a man, cross-legged with his hands on his knees. But it was not a man; it merely had the form of one.

The skin of the creature was blackened and burned, lined with veins of fire that pulsated with a vengeful light. Fire crackled around it in a fluctuating circle, and its hands were alive with flickering flames. Its eyes were closed, and the fiery pattern on its chest glowed brighter with every inward breath. Each inhale was the crackle of flame, each exhale the hiss of hateful smoke.

This was Brand.

He had long since given up counting how many days and months he had spent trapped in this infernal prison, torn from it only to fight in the asinine contests the so-called League of Legends put him through. Each passing day was torment, spent wallowing in his prison with nothing to stimulate him or to spike his interest. On the rare occasions where he was summoned to fight in the League, he drew little comfort from killing others on the Fields of Justice – their deaths were not permanent there, and thus, meant nothing to him. And so, he had resorted to sitting on the floor cross-legged – not to meditate – but rather to entertain himself with the visions of what he would do the League and their petty Summoners when he finally found a way out of his cage.

A sinister grin played at his mouth as he thought of ravenous flames and voracious infernos engulfing the world. His eyes were closed, and the visions of his purification filled his head. Soon, it would be time for another cleansing. Soon, the world would begin anew. Soon, he-

"Mister, why are you on fire?" A child's voice cut through his mind, and he opened his eyes, startled.

Before him stood a small human child who looked at him curiously with her head tilted to one side. Her large green eyes were filled with wonderment as she looked at him, and a stuffed teddy bear hung loosely from her right hand. Her appearance was foreign to him: she wore a simple purple dress with a modest vest over it, and the small furry eared headband that peeked from out of her pink hair gave her the look of a very small bear. Brand blinked in surprise at the sudden appearance of the child. Looking over her shoulder, he could see the door to his room slightly ajar behind her.

"What?" he asked coldly; he hated young children as much as he hated full-grown adults. They were just as infuriating to deal with – if not more so, with their pathetic crying as he burned them and their incessant questions.

"Why are you on fire?" she asked again. Brand sighed, and around him, the circle of flames died. Obviously, this was some spawn of a Summoner or Champion that had gotten lost in the Institute and that had – unfortunately for him – found its way to his room.

_Wonderful._

"Because I am fire itself. Fire is me and I am it," he said shortly. He was in no mood for conversation. _Especially_ not with children.

The child frowned, her brow furrowing. "That doesn't make sense, mister."

"I wouldn't expect a _child_ to understand," snapped Brand, turning away from her. He had had enough of this conversation.

"That's not very nice," she pouted from behind him, and he heard her stamp a small foot against the stone floor. Brand closed his eyes once more, ignoring her. He returned to his seated position, breathing in deeply in an effort to shut her out.

"Why are you in here?" she asked again, and now her voice came from in front of him. Brand opened one eye a sliver; she was standing in front of him again, head still tilted to one side.

"Because I'm a monster!" he snapped. "And monsters don't talk to children!"

"That's it?" she said. "That's boring."

"I don't care," he growled again. _This is going nowhere._

"What's your name?" she asked.

"If I tell you, will you stop asking all these foolish questions?"

"Yes," she promised instantly.

"Brand."

"Brand? That's a funny name. Mine's Annie."

"Fine."

"Did you do something bad?" she asked. "Is that why Missy Lux put you in a cage?"

_Missy Lux? _

Obviously, the child meant Luxanna Crownguard, the Demacian light mage who was always unimaginably cheerful and who specialized in binding and deceptive magic. The one who had captured him and brought him here to this prison. He knew of her well; the cage he was in now was her own handiwork. He was saving a very _special_ punishment just for her once he escaped. She _and _her oafish soldier of a brother. He would like to see how cheerful she was when he had burnt all the flesh from her bones. Starting with her toes.

"Do you want to get out of there?" she asked him, placing her small hands on her hips. The teddy bear flopped limply at her sides as Brand stared at her.

"What do you mean?" asked Brand slowly. _Could this child…?_

"Leave the cage, silly! Whenever my mommy puts me on time-out, I never like it. I always get bored and lonely, because she doesn't let me play with Tibbers." She swung the stuffed bear that hung from her hand for emphasis, and Brand eyed it.

"Can you take down this cage?" he asked deliberately. Annie nodded with a smile on her face.

"It's easy! Missy Lux showed me," she said proudly. "I can do it right now!"

Brand could hardly breathe. Could this child be his key to liberation at last? If he played this right, he would be able to unleash his vengeance at long last.

"Do it," he said breathlessly, standing and pressing his palms against the walls of his cage. He stared at her through the glimmering lights. "Free me."

Annie took a step closer, wagging a small finger. "Okay… but you have to promise not to hurt anyone."

"I won't," said Brand with a wicked grin. Annie looked at him for a moment longer before she shrugged.

"Okay, then."

The finger she had raised suddenly began to glow a radiant red, and Brand heard a hum reverberate in the air. Annie slashed her finger through the air, and the cage that surrounded Brand seemed to split. In front of him, a gash appeared in the shimmering light, as though it were parchment put to flame. Then, slowly, it melted away.

_He was free._

Brand let out an echoing laugh as he extended his arms and he stepped down from the platform where his cage stood. Around him, the last traces of the cage faded and flittered out of existence like scraps of paper on the wind. Or perhaps more fitting, like cinders of a faraway flame. The stone floor beneath his feet blackened where he stepped, and the fire in his hands burned with renewed light. With a shout of triumph, he summoned a column of flames that burned momentarily around him.

"Free at last!" he shouted happily once the flames had died. "Free from that infernal prison!"

He looked down at Annie, who was watching him with a frown on her face. "I thank you, Annie, for releasing me. Now I am free to burn this wretched Institute down."

Annie gasped. "You lied! You promised not to hurt anyone!" she said as she held her bear close to herself.

"I will not be harming them, Annie. I will merely cleanse this world of its filth. And it is a cleansing that has long been coming."

"You can't do that!" she said, standing between him and the door. Brand bristled.

"Listen, child. I am thankful you have freed me, and I will leave you alone for that – merciful as I am. But if you try to stand in my way, I _will_ destroy you."

"No!" she shouted again, and Brand sighed. "So be it," he said dismissively. With a flick of his wrist, a pillar of fire erupted where Annie stood, engulfing her completely. The smile that had flickered across his face devolved into a frown that twisted his features as he watched the fire burn.

_Why is she not screaming?_

With another flick of his fingers, he stopped the flames. And stepped backwards in surprise.

Annie had remained where she stood, totally unharmed. Brand could see the final traces of a shield of molten lava flicker out of existence from around her – what she had used to defend himself from his flames.

"That wasn't very nice," she said petulantly. She raised a small hand – one that was now engulfed in fire like his own – and pointed a finger at him. "You're mean."

A stream of fire burst from her palm, striking Brand directly in the chest. With a grunt, he was knocked back onto the floor of the chamber. Brand shook his head as he pulled himself to his feet once more. Although her magic had been powerful, it was still nowhere near his own. Strong though she may be, she was no match for the timeless experience and power of the Burning Vengeance. More than anything, she had caught him off guard and had taken him by surprise; that was all.

"Out of my way, child," he snarled as he walked towards the door once more. Annie stayed where she was with a firm shake of her head.

"No. You lied to me."

With a growl, Brand launched a crackling ball of flame at her. She gasped, only just managing to summon another shield of fire to protect herself. Brand gave her no time to catch her breath. He summoned pillar after pillar of flame at her feet, and soon, she was skipping across the floor in an effort to avoid them.

"Stop that!" she cried, sounding close to tears. With a final angry cry, she threw her bear up into the air.

"Help me, Tibbers!"

Brand traced the path of the stuffed bear as it flew through the air. His lips curled in amusement as he considered it with an upraised hand. It would be amusing to destroy the bear before her very eyes…

Suddenly, with a burst of flames, it was no longer a stuffed bear. Now, it was a great snarling Shadow Bear that placed itself protectively between him and Annie. It stood nearly twice as tall as him, with rippling ribbons of flames flickering off of its fur. His eyes burned with a hateful fire as he glared at Brand, growling.

Brand took an uncertain step backwards. Mages – especially young ones – he could handle. Shadow Bears were a little more difficult. They had been difficult creatures to destroy in his past, and he would wager that they had stayed the same. He wondered how she had tricked it to obey her.

The Shadow Bear – Tibbers, as she had called it – began to circle around Brand on all four of its legs, a low growl still rumbling deep in its throat. Brand matched its pace, his arms held low at his sides as he mirrored the bear's movements. With a roar, the bear charged him – but he was expecting it.

Brand let out a cry, and a burst of flame erupted where he stood, sending Tibbers flying back with a growl. He landed heavily onto the stone floor with a spray of sparks and came to a stop at Annie's feet. Tibbers had begun to growl and stand again when he suddenly stopped. Over the sound of flames, there was another sound.

Annie was seated with her back against the wall, head in her hands and crying softly. Tibbers lifted his massive head to face her, and with a low sounding groan, nuzzled his head under her arm in an effort to cheer her up.

Brand remained where he stood as an uncomfortable feeling grew in his chest and the fire that he had prepared in his hand died away slowly. Was it guilt? Was it embarrassment? He could not be sure. If he had to guess, he would say that he felt somewhat sorry at having made Annie cry. He had never dealt with children long enough to have to deal with them crying. Most of the time, he burned them alive before they could cry for long. But here, with a child who seemed to be immune to his flames, he was unsure how to proceed.

Tibbers growled at him as he stepped closer, but he ignored the Shadow Bear and walked slowly over to where she sat against the wall.

"Are you alright, child?" he asked awkwardly. Annie sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"No," she said, her lip quivering.

"Why not?" asked Brand uncertainly in an effort to keep her from crying again. He did not enjoy the sound.

"No one wants to play with me," she mumbled under her breath.

"What?"

"No one wants to play with me," she repeated, louder. "Mommy and Daddy are always busy, and Missy Lux isn't here today. I wanted to play with Garen, but I got lost. Now I can't find him."

Brand felt panic grow in his stomach as her lips began to quiver again and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'll play with you," he said hastily, regretting his decision the instant the words had come out of his mouth. Annie's eyes, however, brightened and she looked at him with shining eyes.

"Really?" she asked, though even Tibbers looked skeptical.

"Yes, really," said Brand resignedly, and he stiffened as Annie hugged him suddenly. For a moment, he wished that she would burn herself against his flesh. But she did not.

"Thank you so much, mister Brand!" she squealed happily. "I don't hate you anymore! Now I like you!"

Brand groaned inwardly. _Great._ "Very well, child. What do you wish to do?"

Annie put a finger to her lips as she thought. "I don't know," she said finally. "What do _you_ want to do?"

Brand opened his mouth to speak before realizing he had no idea how to keep Annie occupied. Closing it again, he began to think. At last, an idea struck him. Lifting his right hand, he conjured a small ball of fire that flickered in his palm. He looked at Annie.

"Do you want to play catch?"

* * *

Garen was panicking.

It was not something he did often, but it was happening now regardless. Luxanna had left him to babysit the pyromania-inclined Annie while his sister was in Demacia, and while Annie's parents were in Noxus for the week. Normally, that would not be a problem; the problem now was that he had somehow lost Annie along the way. And thought he knew why.

While he and Annie had been wandering around the Institute hand-in-hand, he had very literally run into a certain red-haired Noxian assassin. She had just come out of one of the numerous training rooms in the Institute, and had inexplicably struck up a conversation with him. He did not know whether she had known he was supposed to be babysitting Annie, and had distracted him intentionally, but it had happened nonetheless. And before he had could realize what had happened, Annie had disappeared.

That had been nearly five hours ago. Five hours where Annie had been off unsupervised doing who knew what. Honestly, he was surprised there had not been any reports of fires in the Institute. He had checked almost all the empty rooms in the Institute, and had stumbled upon many Summoners and several Champions doing less than respectable activities, but he had not found Annie. With an inward groan, he looked at the small watch on his wrist.

Lux had promised to be back by midnight, which was in only an hour and a half. That left him very little time to find and return Annie before Lux returned from her trip. Not good. Not good at all. He sat down on a nearby bench for a momentary breather, wondering what he should do next. He supposed that he could ask another Champion for help; someone like Caitlyn or Warwick would be very helpful in tracking someone down…

"Having trouble there, Crownguard?" came a sudden voice at his side. A voice he knew unfortunately all too well. At the same time, he felt a slight pressure on the bench beside him. She was sitting down next to him. Maybe just a little too close for comfort.

Garen growled into the hands he had placed over his face. "Not now, Noxian. I am _not_ in the mood."

"If I waited until you were in the mood, I'd be waiting all my life," snapped Katarina Du Couteau playfully. Garen glared at her out of the corner of his eye, almost certain that that was supposed to be some sort of sexual jab.

"Well, I'm in even less of a mood now," he said unhappily, consciously trying to stop the fluttering that had started in his chest because of her proximity. _By the gods, she smells nice. _

Katarina grinned, and her emerald eyes flashed mischievously.

Contrary to popular belief, Noxians and Demacians did not _always_ want to kill each other on sight. Only sometimes. Most of the time, both sides were generally content with angry glares and harshly muttered words that were spat under their breath. Especially in the League, where attacking another Champion was strictly forbidden everywhere other than on the Fields of Justice. But given how often they were in the same building for matches, Garen felt that he saw Katarina Du Couteau just a _little_ too often for his own comfort.

Naturally, their relationship was a complicated one. All the times as he had faced her on the Fields of Justice – and off – he had felt a strange, burning desire to _not_ kill her. It was difficult to explain, to say the least. It was as though they were playing a game of chess where they were equally matched, and neither side wished to end it because they were having too much fun. He was almost certain that she felt the same way. They had formed an almost friendly rivalry, complete with banter and name-calling and insults. And though never in any amount of years would he ever admit it, Garen felt as though there may have been something else between them.

Katarina picked idly at her nails. "What happened to your date?" she asked casually. Garen stared at her.

"Date? What date?" he asked in confusion.

"You know: the redhead."

"I have no idea who you're talking about," he said stiffly. _Is she saying she's my date?_

She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Crownguard. Use that thick skull of yours. Taking hits to the head can't be _all_ its good for," she said, rapping her knuckles somewhat painfully on his head. He slapped her hand away – though not harshly.

"It's not," he snapped angrily. "You're the one who's not making any sense."

Katarina sighed. "Do I have to spell it out for you? You know, the _other_ redhead. Short, really likes the color pink, always carries around a stuffed bear, a little _too_ happy to light things on fire? Ring any bells…?" She let her voice trail off.

_Annie. _

"What did you do to her?" growled Garen as the realization struck him.

"I did nothing," said Katarina with a very unconvincing grin.

"You distracted me so she could get away!"

"It's not my fault you couldn't keep your eyes on a child."

"That's because you were ther-" He stopped abruptly, shutting his mouth. The triumphant grin on Katarina's face was not comforting in the slightest.

"What was that?" she asked innocently as she pressed closer to him.

"Nothing," he mumbled at the ground. Katarina laughed.

"Well, as fun as this is, I have things to do," she said, standing suddenly and stretching like a cat. Garen found his eyes drawn to her body as she stretched, and had to tear his gaze away. "Until next time, Crownguard."

She stopped as Garen reached out and held tightly onto her wrist. After a moment of futile struggling, she turned to face him with a slightly annoyed, slightly confused expression on her face.

"Are you going to let me go, or do I have to cut your hand off?" she asked icily.

"You're not going anywhere."

He had to bite back a laugh as her face suddenly flushed pink; evidently, she had taken his words to mean something different than what he meant.

"You better not be about to try anything funny, Crownguard," she growled in a low and dangerous voice, though the flush on her face remained. "I'd like to see you try to take a piss standing up without a di-"

"You're going to help me find Annie."

Her expression changed to one of pure annoyance as the flush vanished. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Or what?" she asked, raising her chin haughtily. "You'll tell Lux on me?"

"Nope. Or I'll tell Mr. and Mrs. Hastur you let their precious child wander around the Institute unsupervised."

It was as though Katarina had been slapped; her expression changed from one of annoyance to one of barely concealed fear. Gregori and Amoline Hastur – Annie's parents – were among the most feared individuals in Noxus. Although they have exiled themselves from the city-state, they still nonetheless held tremendous influence. Not to mention they were both undisputed masters of dark arcane knowledge and sorcery. Absolutely _no one_ in the League wanted to get on their bad side. Unfortunately for the Champions, however, the easiest way to do so was to harm their precious child, which happened often on the Fields of Justice.

"You wouldn't dare," she breathed, suddenly pressing herself close to him. He could feel her breath tickle his nose. "That's not even the truth."

"Doesn't matter. Who do you think they're going to believe: a Noxian assassin or the commander of the Dauntless Vanguard?"

"And here I thought all you Demacians were supposed to be honest and righteous."

Garen bent low, so that their lips were almost touching. He noted as Katarina's eyes flashed down to his mouth in uncertainty as he leaned in.

"Try me," he breathed back just as quietly. Katarina's eyes grew, and a scowl replaced her fearful expression, though a hint of the flush from before had returned.

"Fuck you," she snarled, tearing her hand away from his.

Garen chuckled.

* * *

Brand had to admit: playing with Annie had not been as bad as he had imagined it would be. It was somewhat amusing to watch the small child run squealing around the room as she tried to catch all the small fireballs he threw at her. Even Tibbers seemed somewhat entertained, and he had let Annie ride him in an effort to keep up with the spheres of fire he threw.

As they played, he had found out more about her past from the excited replies she gave his questions: born to Gregori and Amoline Hastur – both exceptionally powerful magicians – she had grown up in the Voodoo Lands. There, she had met and captured the Shadow Bear known as Tibbers, who – although he had initially been understandably angry and upset at being entrapped – had grown to care for the small child. Now, he acted as a guardian and protector for the Dark Child, as well as a constant companion. Though her parents had doted on her her entire life, Annie was lonely. Being both the child of the leaders of the Gray Order as well as a powerful mage herself, Annie had made little friends growing up. The other children within the Gray Order – what few there were – were intimidated by her and her parents, and had shunned her.

Indeed, her only true friend was Tibbers, whom she could obviously not keep summoned at all times. As he watched the young girl squeal in delight at their game, Brand felt a very unfamiliar sensation of sadness and pity.

"You don't have many friends, do you, child?" he asked, stopping the barrage of fireballs.

Annie looked at him, and her small face fell unhappily. "No. None of the other kids wanted to play with me. I think they're afraid of me."

Brand chuckled. "You are rather frightening."

Annie grinned. "I know!" she said happily and with a giggle. Brand shook his head with another chuckle as they resumed their game.

* * *

Garen and Katarina walked quickly and side-by-side through the Institute in their search for Annie. He had debated simply calling out her name, but had decided to save that tactic for a last resort. Though they had asked every Champion and Summoner they had passed whether they had seen the Dark Child, they still had yet to meet with success. Beside him, Katarina was still grumbling several choice words at him, upset at having been dragged along.

"Do you reckon we should ask someone like Caitlyn?" he asked finally, once they had made nearly a full circuit around the Institute's outer hallways.

Katarina was bent over slightly beside him in an effort to catch her breath, and as she stood, she wiped her brow. "Caitlyn's not here right now; she's off on Sheriff's business in Piltover."

"How do you know?"

"I ran into her as she was leaving. If we ask anyone, it'll have to be someone else."

"Warwick?" suggested Garen. Katarina shook her head.

"Are you kidding? He'll scare the pants off of Annie if he finds her before us. We're better off looking for Shen or Kennen. With all the 'watching' the Kinkou does, they're bound to have seen something."

Garen shook his head. "They're not here. None of the Kinkou is. It's the Festival of Fire, remember?"

Katarina swore loudly, striking the wall beside them with a closed fist. "Of all the days for them to be missing…" she muttered.

"We'll have to find someone else or keep on looking," he said dejectedly. Garen looked at his watch. "We better do it quick, too; Lux will be here any minute, and we don't want to have to tell her-"

"Don't want to have to tell me what?" came a familiar voice from behind them. Garen and Katarina spun around, turning to face the blond Demacian mage who had just walked into the room where they were. She was dressed in a simple blue dress and had a bag slung over her shoulder. Garen straightened immediately, and beside him, Katarina did the same.

"Nothing, nothing at all, Lux," he said quickly.

Lux narrowed her eyes suspiciously at them. "What's going on here?" she asked slowly, her hands on her hips. "Why are you two together? And where is Annie?"

Garen scratched his head meekly. "You see, Lux, that's the problem: Annie's missing. Katarina has been helping me to try to find her."

The bag that Lux was carrying hit the floor with an ominous thud.

"She's _what_?" she repeated in a low voice. To Garen's surprise, she did not sound angry. On the contrary, she sounded as frightened as Katarina had been when he threatened to go to the Hasturs. "You _lost_ her?"

Garen pointed at the Noxian beside him immediately, and Katarina glared at him, scandalized. "It was her fault. She distracted me."

Katarina had opened her mouth in an angry reply, but Lux cut her off. "I don't care whose fault it is," she hissed. "Do you know what the Hasturs will do to me – to us – if we tell them we lost Annie? They'll rip us apart!" Lux straightened to her full height, looking around desperately.

"We need to find someone. Someone who can find Annie."

"That's what we were thinking," said Katarina as she elbowed Garen painfully in the ribs. Garen gave a grunt, clutching his chest. "I was thinking Warwick, since neither Cait nor the Kinkou are here right now."

"No, no," said Lux with a dismissive wave of her hand as she continued to look around. "Warwick's not here right now. He's with Singed in Zaun. They left on the same train I did."

"Fuck!" said Katarina immediately. "Why the hell isn't anyone here today?" she hissed angrily.

"Well, it's a vacation, isn't it?" snapped Lux as she turned to face them. "Why would anyone be here? And don't get pissy at me; it's your fault that she got lost in the first place!"

"My fault?" began Katarina, aghast. The two women broke into a quiet argument full of hushed whispers as they glared at each other. Meanwhile, Garen was walking slowly down the hallway away from the pair; he had seen someone who looked very promising…

"You two, be quiet!" he hushed. The two women looked at him in stunned silence.

"Did he just-" said Lux, looking as though he had slapped her.

"I think he did," muttered Katarina, and the two women glared daggers at the back of his head.

Garen ignored them. He followed the trailing figure that he had spotted, and after only a moment of hesitation, the two women followed him.

"Malzahar, wait!" he called as he turned the corner where he had seen the figure disappear down.

The Prophet of the Void stopped where he floated in midair, and very deliberately, turned to face Garen. A small Voidling – one that was ever present on Malzahar's person – skittered out of sight over his shoulder. He did not reply, instead considering Garen with his glowing eyes.

"Listen, I'm sorry to bother you, but we have a bit of a problem," he said weakly. The Prophet raised an eyebrow, the motion barely discernable through the folds of his hood.

"Speak," he said simply, and Garen winced as the Prophet's layered voice echoed throughout the hallway. Behind him, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps, and knew that Lux and Katarina had arrived. Malzahar's eyes flickered up to the newcomers before falling back to Garen.

"If it's not too much trouble, I was wondering if you could help us find someone," he said hurriedly.

Malzahar stared at him. "You wish for us to help you… find someone?" he said slowly.

The three unhappy companions nodded quickly.

"Who is this… _someone_?" he said skeptically.

"Annie," said Lux immediately.

Malzahar looked at her, and Garen could see the trace of surprise on his face. "Annie? As in the Champion of the League?"

"Yes," said Katarina. "Garen here lost her a while back, and we would rather not have to die at the hands of the Hasturs."

"And what exactly would you wish for us to do?"

"I don't know," said Lux. "Do you think you can use your Sight to try to find her?"

Malzahar straightened – a difficult task given that he was already floating – and he eyed the three of them haughtily. He crossed his arms and looked at them down the bridge of his nose. "The Prophet of the Void is not a crystal ball that can be utilized at any whim," he said proudly. "Only the Void commands the Prophet, and the Void alone."

"Listen, Malzahar," said Katarina with a trace of angry exasperation. "We're not asking you to read our futures or to kill anyone. We just want you to help us find Annie."

"And what is in it for the Void should we accept?"

"We'll do you a favor. All three of us. _Three _favors," said Garen quickly, desperate to keep his interest.

"What good are favors to the Void?"

"I don't know!" snapped Garen angrily. "We'll do something for you!"

"The Void needs no help for its plans."

"We'll tell you secrets about other Champions," said Lux frantically.

Though Garen could not see his face, he could tell that Malzahar was scowling in disgust.

"The Void cares not for the petty lives of others," he said disdainfully.

"We'll give you information when you ask for it," said Katarina desperately. At this, Malzahar seemed to perk up.

"Information?" he repeated slowly, and the three companions nodded their heads vigorously. "The Void has a great need for information…" he said, almost to himself. The Voidling that had hidden out of sight in his scarf came out now, and began to chitter quietly to Malzahar. The three of them watched with held breath as Malzahar seemed to deliberate with the Voidling. At last, they seemed to come to a decision. The Voidling skittered back out of sight as Malzahar turned to them.

"Very well," he said with an ominous finality. "For the price of information, we will find Annie." He stared at each one of them in turn; each and every one of them shivered under his gaze. "The Void holds you three to your word. We will come to collet our dues when we require information."

"Of course," they said in unison, and Malzahar nodded, evidently pleased.

"Very well. We shall find Annie."

Malzahar closed his eyes, and the three companions looked at him expectantly. When he opened his eyes again, his face was smug with the undeniable expression of success.

"It is done," he said simply. "We have found her."

"Where is she in the Institute?" asked Lux quickly. "Can you take us?"

"You asked for us to find her," said Malzahar coldly. "Not to lead you to her. That was not part of the agreement."

"Fine. But is she safe?" inquired Katarina.

"You asked us to find her, not to assess her situat-"

"Fine!" snapped Garen. "_Where_ is she?"

"She is with Brand," said Malzahar coolly. "Farewell. And do not forget our promise."

With that, the Prophet of the Void turned away with a swish of his robes and disappeared down the hallway. The three companions were left in a stunned silence, and their horrified expressions were shared as they looked at one another.

"Oh, shit," said Katarina finally, and for once, Garen agreed with the Noxian.

* * *

The three of them ran as quickly as they could to the area where Brand was held. Their footfalls were heavy as they ran, echoing down the empty hallways. Brand was held in an unused Summoning Chamber that was hidden far in the bowels of the Institute, far enough away to ensure that if he did get out, the immediate destruction would be minimal. As they ran, Garen had to marvel at how far Annie had gone.

"There!" said Lux, pointing at a hallway up ahead of them with a long finger; being the one who had hidden Brand away, she knew the exact location of his prison. "We're almost there; it's just around the next corner!"

They skidded almost comically around the corner, and Garen's breath caught in his chest: the door Lux pointed to was ajar, and he could see the unmistakable flickering of raging flames from within. They cast an ominous orange and red glow on the wall opposite, and their shadows were long as they approached the door cautiously. With a gloved hand, Garen pushed aside the door, and they walked inside.

And stopped in their tracks.

It was a sight none of them – or anyone, for that matter – could have predicted: Brand and Annie were seated cross-legged with their backs to the door on the floor, watching a column of flames that burned in the center of the room with all the colors of the rainbow. Every so often, one of them would cast a stream of fire from their hands to keep the pillar going, but otherwise, they were enraptured by the colors of the fire. Even Tibbers, his massive form dwarfing Annie's, sat beside his master, looking up into the flames as well.

Garen looked to his companions, and saw that they too were staring at the fire. As he looked back, he had to admit that it was beautiful… in a dangerous, uncontrollable sort of way; he did not know what they had done to the fire, but it burned with all the colors of the spectrum, and he could see everything from purples to greens to blues in the column of flames. The six of them in the room must have stared at the flames for several silent minutes before Garen remembered what they had come there for.

He cleared his throat loudly, and the spell was broken. The fires died with a sound like that of rushing wind, and Brand spun around quickly, an angry expression on his face. Beside him, Annie did the same, her hands flickering with flames. At the sight of them, however, the flames in her hands died and she squealed with delight.

"Missy Lux!" she shouted happily, nearly tackling the Demacian with glee. "Katty!" she yelled, running over to Katarina and hugging her legs tightly. "And Garen!" She hugged Garen warmly – her hands were still hot from the flames – and Garen patted her awkwardly on the head.

"I'm glad to see you're safe," he said as she stepped away, beaming. "We didn't know whether you'd be safe with…" His voice trailed off as he looked up at Brand.

The Burning Vengeance was watching them with his arms crossed, his perpetual scowl on his face. "Safe with me? I wonder why," he said sarcastically.

Lux pushed Annie behind her, angling herself so that she stood protectively in front of the little girl. "Brand," she said commandingly as her baton suddenly appeared in her fingers. "I don't know how you got out of your restraints, but-"

"The child behind you let me out," he said sharply, eyes flashing in annoyance. "If I recall correctly, she said it was_ you_ that taught her the way to undo my restraints."

Lux's face darkened in embarrassment and she looked at the floor. "I was just showing her some binding magic," she stammered as Garen and Katarina glared at her. Brand snorted in amusement.

"Whatever it is, I am not to blame for the laxness of others," he said icily – if that was possible from Brand. "She found her way here."

"Did you hurt her?" asked Katarina, inspecting Annie for wounds out of the corner of her eye.

"He tried!" said Annie happily. "But fire can't hurt me."

Brand grinned wickedly. "She speaks the truth; I tried, but I cannot harm her. She should consider herself lucky I am not the spirit of water or _ice_." He spat the last word as though it had a bad taste in his mouth.

"The fact remains that you attempted to harm another Champion of the League, and so, proper punishment must be-" began Garen with as much authority as he could muster.

"She is a Champion of the League?" asked Brand in surprise. He looked at Annie. "You did not tell me this, child."

Annie shrugged.

"Whatever may or may not have happened," interjected Lux. "You have still broken of your restraints. I will place you back in them; otherwise I will summon the High Counselor here to have you destroyed."

Brand's eyes flared with anger, and the fires on his burnt flesh seemed to glow brighter. "Destroy me? You can try, little mage. Three foolish companions cannot stop the Burning Vengeance. I am free from my cage and free to do as I choose."

Annie gasped, and she pushed out from under Lux's legs. "Brand!" she said admonishingly. "You can't do that! You promised!"

"The cleansing of the world cannot be stopped, child," he said, and Garen thought that his voice had softened.

"But if you destroy the world, we can't play catch again! We can't play with fire again!" said Annie, and she sounded close to tears. Slowly, Brand's arms fell back to his sides, and he looked at Annie curiously with an expression Garen had never seen before on Brand's face.

"The cleansing of the world cannot be stopped…" he said slowly. "But for you, Annie… perhaps it can be delayed."

To Garen's utter amazement, Brand stepped slowly back onto the platform where his cage had been. He crossed his arms, glaring unhappily at the three of them.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he snapped when no one had moved. "Cage me again before I change my mind! I have not got all day!"

Lux shook herself vigorously, swallowing as she raised her baton. The air around Brand shimmered, and soon, there was a cage of light encircling him once more. He sat down cross-legged in the center of the circle, placing his hands on his knees and closing his eyes.

"Leave," he said angrily without opening his eyes to look at them. "Your presence makes me weary."

Wordlessly – and still unsure at what they had just seen – the three companions made their way out of the room. Garen and Katarina were already out when Lux looked back.

"Come on, Annie," she said softly, calling back to the child, who was still in the room looking at Brand. She had already returned Tibbers to his teddy bear form, and held him loosely in her left hand.

"Will he be alright?" she said worriedly. "He won't get lonely, will he?"

"I don't know," muttered Lux.

Annie stared at Brand, who was still sitting with his eyes closed. "I'll visit him," she mumbled under her breath. "I'll visit you, Brand!" she said loudly, shaking Tibbers. "Tibbers too! We'll be back, I promise!"

Brand chuckled; a sound Garen had never heard before from him. "I will be waiting, young one."

* * *

It was only when they had closed the door behind them that Brand opened his eyes. The room seemed unnaturally quiet without Annie's squeals of delight. He stood, pacing in his cage of light. Perhaps it was simply his imagination, but it looked as though Lux had made the cage larger this time. Maybe to make him more comfortable.

Brand snorted, placing his hands behind his back. He looked up at the ceiling of his room. One day, the cleansing would come – that much was sure. And it would be by his hand. But for now… that day could wait. Now he had something to look forward to.

He raised his right hand before him and stared at the flames flickering in his palm. With a snap of his fingers, a ball of fire burst into life above his hand. As he watched it, a grin grew on his face.

_Playing with fire, indeed._


	3. Dead Man Walking

Graves: Dead Man Walking

Malcolm Graves lay flat on his stomach on the stiff cot he called his bed. He was not lying on his stomach because he wanted to, but because lying on his back would mean that he would be laying on the 50 fresh lashes that had been made the day before. The pain was nothing more than a dull throb in his mind now. He was used to pain.

Somewhere in the corner of his jail cell, he heard the steady drip of water, and in another shadowy corner, the scurrying steps of unseen mice. The scratchy prison outfit that he had been given itched at his raw skin as he shifted where he lay.

All around him, the low voices of the other jailbirds came together like the breath of some great beast. They were rattling their bars, tapping their fingers against the edges of their bed, or otherwise making a ruckus. A symphony of screw-ups.

But Malcolm Graves did not hear them. His eyes were focused on a point in front of him – not the wall that he was staring at, but at a point beyond it that only he could see.

Twisted Fate's face.

The familiar sense of boiling anger rose up in his stomach as he thought of his old partner.

_When I find you, Fate…_

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the door to the cells open from far away. The echoing footsteps of a handful of guards rang up the small walkway that separated the cells. All at once, the noises in the cells stopped as each prisoner held their breath in anticipation.

The footsteps slowly grew louder and louder as they neared Graves' cell, which was at the very end of the cell block, opposite an empty one. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three pairs of iron-toed boots stop outside his cell.

"Get up, Graves," said one of the guards roughly. "Dr. Priggs wants to see you."

"So soon?" came a shrill voice from the cell next to Graves, followed by long, reedy laughter. "You done did something bad, Graves!" it hooted.

The rest of prisoners in the block began to laugh as well, calling out insults to the guards and jeering at Graves. The guards scowled as Graves made no motion to move. With a gesture, one guard stepped back as the two others opened the door to Graves' cell. They hauled him roughly to his feet, striking him several times in the stomach for good measure.

Malcolm Graves did not feel it.

His eyes were still staring straight ahead at the thing only he could see. The guards shut the door to his cell behind and began to lead Graves down the walkway.

As they did, the other prisoners hastened their tapping against the bars. Some drummed on their cots while others began to clap in unison, until soon, the whole cell block was making noise. It grew louder each cell that Graves passed until it was almost deafening.

It was the reedy voiced prisoner that was in the cell beside Graves' that began to sing. Though he started it, the other prisoners joined until the old Bilgewater tune rang out in the block:

_There goes a rotting corpse_

_Nothing but skin and bones_

_There goes a dug up grave_

_Hear his moans and groans_

_He ain't got nothing but hate left_

_In those eyes of his_

_He ain't got no goodness left in him_

_At least, for you, that is_

_You better watch out_

_You best watch your back_

_There's something bad out tonight_

_Lock up your doors_

_And windows tight_

_Because it's a dead man walking, Jack._

The song finished just as the guards led Graves through the doors at the end of the cell block. As he passed through the doors, the smallest trace of a smile twisted his mouth. Held tightly in the hand that was pinned to his back was a single bullet, stolen from the guards as they had lifted him from his cot.

Alone, it was not much, but once he was returned to his cell, it would join the others he had stolen during his time in the prison. He had gathered them and stored them, because he knew that the powder inside could be used.

Malcolm Graves had been called many things: thief, murderer, criminal, stupid.

But he was nothing if not patient.


	4. Threads and Needles

**If you guys can't tell, my favorite Champion is Malzahar. His voice-over, his appearance, his kit, his lore, his backstory, I just love it all. So expect more stories about him, since he's so awesome.**

**Peace**

* * *

Morgana and Malzahar: Threads and Needles

Not many knew it, but baking and the dark arts were not the only things Morgana was good at: in addition to making cakes that would melt in your mouth and casting spells that would melt your mouth off, Morgana was also a very capable seamstress. She could fashion dresses and the like from all manner of different materials, from the lowest types of cotton to the finest silks and everything in between. And she was very good at it.

A helpful side-effect of her mastery in the dark arts was that it also allowed her to incorporate and weave her magic into the fabric itself. She could whisper spells into the material she was working in order to make it so the wearer would be more difficult to spot on a dark night, or so that they may find that fire does not seem to catch onto them. Additionally, she was capable of handling fabric that was magical in nature, and as a result, many of the Champions of the League had sought her hand in preserving their more valuable of textiles.

Whenever LeBlanc's dress ripped, who did she come to? Morgana. Whenever Soraka needed help mending a tear in her skirt, who did she come to? Morgana. Whenever Ryze needed a new pair of pants, who did he come to? Morgana. Whenever Lux was looking for a new pair of socks, who did she come to? Morgana.

Her services, however – though somewhat well-known – were not cheap. It was both exhausting and time-consuming to deal with magical fabrics, so she saved her services for the clients who she knew could afford them. Other than the occasional powerful sorcerer or warlock that came to her, she was mainly restricted to the Champions and the Summoners of the League. Not that she minded; she had much better things to do than waste a week fashioning a pair of gloves for Syndra.

At the present moment, she was rather unoccupied, sitting in her apartment trying out a new recipe for angelfingers – a type of Demacian pastry similar to ladyfingers. Whenever she ate them, she liked to imagine that they were Kayle's fingers and she was biting them off one by one.

It was a pleasant thought.

She had already placed them in the oven when there was a knock at her door. Straightening, she removed her gloves and placed them atop the oven with a satisfied sigh as she contemplated the timer. She waited where she was, hand on the timer knob as she waited to hear another knock. But to her surprise, she did not hear another. For a moment longer, she remained where she stood, straining her ears to listen for another sound. But there came none.

Had she imagined it?

Straightening and brushing off her apron, she made her way over to the door. When she opened it, it was to a face full of shimmering purple robes that hovered just above eye-level. Morgana's eyes flicked upwards to a familiarly scarfed face.

_Malzahar_.

The Prophet of the Void floated several feet above the floor, his head nearly brushing the top of her doorway. As he saw her, he slowly began to lower himself until his eyes met hers. Light blue met pale purple as they considered one another.

"Morgana," he said simply in his rich, echoing voice. Over his shoulder, a Voidling peeked shyly at her. She had always found them… _cute_.

"Malzahar," she said unassumingly. "I thought perhaps I may have imagined your knocking. You _did_ only knock once."

"There was no need to knock more than once; we knew you would come."

Morgana pursed her lips. The Prophet of the Void could be somewhat difficult to deal with, given his borderline pretentious attitude when it came to fate and the future. It seemed that though he was entirely focused on his goal to bring the Void to Valoran, he still retained his gift of Sight. As a result, he was always insufferably smug when he correctly predicted not only the future, but the present and past as well. Morgana wondered why he did not employ the use of his Sight as favors to the League or to other Champions, but she imagined it all came back to his devotion to the Void. In his mind, he had little use for the affairs of mortals.

"Very well, then, Malzahar," she said tightly. "What is it you want?"

He did not speak, instead turning slightly to expose a moderately large burn in his robes along the right side of his torso. After she had inspected it for a moment, he turned back to face her.

"You have skill with mending fabrics of a magical nature." It was not a question; it was a statement.

"I do," she said as she crossed her arms with a proud expression.

"As you can see, we have a problem with our clothes."

"May I inquire as to how that problem came about?"

"Must you?" His tone was strange… embarrassed, perhaps?

Morgana raised an eyebrow – the one above the unscarred eye. "It may help in mending the fabric if I know the cause of the damage."

The faintest of sighs was heard beneath the scarf, and Malzahar closed his eyes momentarily. "We were with Kog'Maw. He grew excited and we were in his line of fire."

Morgana loosened her arms slightly in surprise; whenever she was struck by Kog'Maw on the Fields of Justice, it was always painful. Yet here Malzahar was, looking completely unharmed.

"Didn't it hurt you?"

The smug expression returned to Malzahar's face. "The Void does not hurt those who serve it most loyally."

Morgana closed her eyes as she sighed. _Of course. _

"I imagine you want me to mend it then."

Malzahar bowed his head slightly. "If you would, we would be very grateful."

Morgana sighed. "Very well. Bring it by tomorrow and I will see what I can do." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I will expect payment."

"We will provide compensation."

"I want gold, Malzahar. None of your… _information_ or talking about fate. Gold."

Malzahar's eyes narrowed as well as he glared at her. "We _meant_ gold, Fallen One."

She smiled slightly, showing her teeth. "Then I'm glad we have an agreement."

* * *

Morgana had forgotten about Malzahar completely when she heard the knock at her door once more. Straightening, she placed the cake she had pulled out of the oven on the table beside her. Wiping her brow, she pulled the gloves from her hands and hung them on a small hook above the oven. A sense of déjà vu sank over her as she waited for a second knock that never came. A small smile grew on her face as she brushed her apron off slowly.

"Greetings again, Malzah-" she began, halting as she opened the door to face the Prophet. She was stunned; it was as though she had never seen the man who hovered before her now.

His eyes were the same, but the rest of Malzahar was different. He did not wear his hood or his scarf, and for the first time she could ever remember, Morgana could see his face clearly and without obstruction. Her first thought was that he was more handsome than she would have imagined… or would have liked. His skin was dark like ebony, and had been tempered by the sun and the sand and the wind. Medium-length black hair fell down around his face like a veil of midnight itself. His features were rough and worn, and his handsomeness was a rugged, jagged sort of attraction. Morgana was speechless. The robes were wore were plain and a stark white, blinding like the desert sand beneath the sun.

"Greetings, Morgana," said Malzahar as he shifted the robes he held from one hand to the other. The Voidling on his shoulder also chittered quietly in salutation before hiding away out of sight once more. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "Your appearance just took me by surprise a little." She chuckled uncertainly. "I've never seen you without your hood on before."

Malzahar raised an eyebrow. "Few have."

After a moment of pause, Morgana cleared her throat. "Well," she said, extending her hand for the clothes. "If you'd like to leave them with me, I should have them ready by the end of the week."

His arm brushed against hers as he handed her the folded robes. He was more muscular than she would have guessed, and the firmness of his forearm surprised her. It was like an oak bannister, or like stones in the desert sand. She held the robes tightly in her arm as she stepped back from the door.

"Until then, Malzahar," she said, turning away quickly so that he could not see the slight flush on her face. She heard his voice just before the door closed behind her.

"Until then… Morgana."

* * *

Morgana stared blankly at the folded robes beneath her fingers. They were rough, and yet not uncomfortably so. The cloth was light – perfect for surviving the extreme desert elements and the drastic changes in temperature – and yet tough enough to defend against the wind and the sand.

She found she rather liked the purple color he used.

Her finger traced the mysterious runes that were woven into the cloth with shimmering thread that glinted and changed color as it moved. Though the material moved like it were fabric, it also shown with an ethereal light like the smoke of dreams. The fabric of Malzahar's robes glistened like stars against the desert night sky. Morgana's hands lingered along the faintly glowing runes as she felt the cloth beneath her fingertips.

They smelled like him.

She had not even registered that he _had_ a smell in the first place until she had been alone with the robes. But she could smell it now. It was a musky, earthen smell… just like the desert. She could smell the sand and the wind on his robes along with the traces of a more metallic scent. She closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. Beneath the sand and the earth and the metal, there were deeper and far more… _potent_ smells.

Smells that were more like him.

She could smell a rich, spicy smell that was not altogether unpleasant. From her time in the Shurima Desert and from her experiences dealing with those who came from there, she knew it was a hub for the spice trade, and she imagined that was where it came from. It was his home, and he smelled like it. It was tangy and sharp and it tickled her nose.

But it was not the only smell.

There was something sinister in his robes. It was a sickly sweet smell, one that raised the hair on her neck and made her nose itch unpleasantly. It was a scent she had smelled all too often when Champions like Cho'Gath or Vel'Koz ran after her on the Fields of Justice. It clung to the robe like a parasite, and though it was faint, it was heavy in her nostrils.

The smell of the Void.

Morgana unfolded the robes. She fingered the edge of the burn with her thumb and her index finger, feeling the burnt and torn material. The damage was extensive, and the hole was large. It would take quite a lot to fix, both time and her concentration. Her eyes moved from the robe to the small box of her instruments that was beside the robe. She plucked a short needle from the box, twisting it in her hands as she considered the fabric beneath her hands.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

Morgana was waiting for the knock. It came just how she expected it: a singular knock full of intent and purpose. She remained where she was sitting – in her armchair beside the fire with his robes folded over her lap – for a minute before she stood at last. Malzahar was wearing the same white robes as before, and Morgana wondered vaguely how he kept them so impeccably clean.

Wordlessly, she extended the robes to him. He looked down at the clothes in her extended hands but he did not take them.

"And what of your payment?" he asked once he had taken them.

Morgana shook her head. "I decided I don't want any. It was enough to work with the fabric." Her mouth twitched in an attempt at a half-smile. "It was very interesting material."

Malzahar nodded slowly, his eyes unreadable.

"Thank you, Morgana," he said in as quiet a tone as she imagined he could be. She nodded curtly, pressing her lips together.

She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to know more about him. He may have been infinitely younger than she, but his exposure to the sands of time made him ageless. He knew more than she thought he could – perhaps even more than she knew. He was timeless and would be so for the rest of time. She wanted to know more.

But she could not.

She had already turned around and was beginning to close the door when one of his hands stopped it. She froze, her heart beating faster than she would have liked at the gesture.

"Are you sure there is nothing you want as compensation?" he asked as he opened the door slightly. "The Void makes sure to reward those who help it."

"I don't want something from the Void," she said quietly, looking down at the floor.

"Then what would you like from me?"

_Me_. Not "us," not "the Void." Me.

She looked up at him, her breath shaky. "I want you to come back. Some other time. Even if you don't have something to mend, come visit me. Maybe then we can talk."

Malzahar nodded slowly as he tucked his robes securely under his arm. "I will return," he said simply as he closed the door for her.

"I promise."


	5. Tears of the Crystal Scar

Skarner: Tears of the Crystal Scar

Something moved deep beneath Kalamanda.

The village, once nothing more than a sleepy outpost to the north of Mogron Pass, was now as empty and barren as the mountains that surrounded it. The magical feedback from the temporal stasis spell that Zilean had cast over the region to prevent all-out war between Noxus and Demacia had poisoned the land. Even now, months after the spell had been cast, magic hung in the air and tainted the water. On a clear day, one could still see faint tendrils of magical energy fluttering through the air like strings of dust. No one would be able to live here for decades to come. Maybe even not ever again.

No one human, that was.

Skarner moved deep beneath the soil, his many legs churning like a machine's and the earth rumbling around him as he dug his way through the stone and the rock. His yellow eyes were all he needed to see through the darkness of the underground, and they shone like lights in the gloom. He navigated his way through the now empty mining tunnels the Zaunite-manufactured machines had left in their wake as they searched for gold and crystals.

His rocky face twisted in disdain as he knocked aside an over-turned mining cart with a large claw, the gesture nowhere close to conveying the venom he felt at what the humans had done to his homeland. At least now he had found a use for the numerous tunnels the human had left that was not so disgusting. His impassive face did not betray the emotions he felt – the grief, the anger, the sorrow, the hopelessness – as he wandered morosely through the dirt of the land he had once known so well.

The humans had raped the land; where once he would have seen crystals glistening like stars all around him in the dark earth, now there was nothing. Occasionally, his sharp foot would step on a small crystal, but that was rare. A mournful rumble built deep in his chest as he remembered what had once been.

His powerful claws moved the earth effortlessly as he dug deep into the ground, angling himself downwards. The deeper he went, the more often he saw crystals around him. Here, the greedy hands of the humans had yet to touch. And they would not ever touch them again – they were too afraid of the poisonous magic to even come here now. Everything was safe here. Here, the crystals were safe.

Here, his kind was safe.

Skarner pushed aside the last mounds of earth, shaking himself off as he stepped out into a massive stone grotto that was hidden away far beneath the ground. It was deep enough so that the humans had yet to find it, and so that the warmth of the earth kept his people warm in their slumber.

All around him, crystals brighter than any human eyes had ever seen shone like stars in the night sky. The grotto was almost as large as the Institute of War, and the stone walls were embedded with glistening jewels. In the middle, a pool of the stillest and clearest water twinkled with all the brilliance of the crystals around it. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the grotto as he made his way slowly over to the lake. An almost unnoticeable ripple – as though someone had brushed a spider-web – radiated out from where he dipped his mouth gently into the water.

It was peaceful here. Here, no human eyes would ever see the beauty of what he had known; no human hands would ever pull the crystals from their resting places – where they had slept for millennia; no human mouths would ever sully the water of the Crystal Lake; no human machines would ever bring their smoke and their oil and death to this place. He would make sure of it.

As he made his way around the very edge of the grotto, he touched a claw tenderly to the crystal walls. If once looked closely, one would see that there were things hidden away in the walls of the cave: stone beasts like the one who guarded them now, many much smaller than one of his claws, and far more fragile looking.

Here, in the Cave of the Crystal Lake, the Brackern slept. Their crystals pulsed slowly like heartbeats in their stone bodies, and the light warmed Skarner. It was like they breathed in unison, the pulsing of their crystals hearts one. He watched the young ones sleeping, as well as many of the friends he had once known so long ago.

If the Crystal Vanguard could have shed a tear, it would have been then. But he could not; it was only the Crystal Scar that wept, mourning for what had been done to it.

Skarner curled up in the center of the cave, tucking his tail firmly around him even as he closed his eyes. He would protect them, now and always. He would protect them like he had not his homeland. He would protect them until the time was right for them to awake once more. He would make sure that those who slept now slept in a peaceful slumber.

He would protect them all.


	6. Eternity and Forever

Morgana and Malzahar: Eternity and Forever

"How do you… _see_ it?" asked Morgana slowly, still somewhat uncertain about how to phrase her question. Beside her, Malzahar raised an eyebrow in questioning.

"What do you mean?"

Morgana waved a hand vaguely through the air to indicate her surroundings. "This reality. If you can see the past, present, and future at the same time, then how do you see _this_ world? _Our _world? _My _world?"

Malzahar frowned thoughtfully as he crossed his arms. "When I close my eyes… I can see it. It is like looking at a broken mirror; each piece is a different scene, and all of them are real. I live in this present, but I can see the other times… as though they were dreams that I can still remember. Blurred, but there nonetheless, and always ever-changing."

Morgana nodded slowly as she considered his words. It was when he spoke to her – and only to her – that he did not refer to himself as "we" or "us." She had heard him talk to others, and even when she would be with him – unless they were alone – he would not change his speech. After a brief pause, she turned her attention back to the scene before them.

They sat at the end of an isolated beach, with Morgana lounging on a comfortable chair beneath a large parasol and Malzahar right at home under the hot afternoon sun. Morgana had forgone her normal attire in exchange for a pale purple sundress that fluttered slightly in the beach breeze. She was hidden away safely in the shade beneath her dark purple parasol, as her pale complexion caused her to burn remarkably quickly beneath the heat of the sun. Her wings were tucked securely in the shade as well, and their torn feathers flickered easily in the wind.

Malzahar had also forgone his normal robes in exchange for the stark white robes that Morgana had seen him in before. Unlike her, he lounged in a uncovered beach chair, perfectly content with the sun – given his upbringing in the Shurima Desert – and with the hood for his robe pulled back. His medium length hair fluttered slightly in the sea breeze and his dark skin clashed with the paleness of his clothes. He had left his scarf as well, and his face was bare for all to see. On more than one occasion, Morgana found herself sneaking glances at his face; she had never seen him look so content before.

Though the beach was isolated, they were not alone: Champions from all of the city-states had been invited to spend a weekend of relaxation at a League-sponsored beach trip. Though even Morgana had expressed her skepticism at such an endeavor, she had been surprised to find that many Champions had taken up the offer. Even the Champions who she would have expected to be the _least_ inclined to go had chosen to go, such as the Night Hunter herself and the Outlaw, Graves.

She had not been intending to go in the slightest until Malzahar had asked her if she wished to accompany her. She still remembered how stunned and speechless she had been when he had asked her. Even now, sitting beside him, she still felt a little uncertain. Could this be considered… a date? It certainly seemed that way, given the circumstances.

Before the pair, Malzahar's ever-present Voidling dug happily into the beach sand at their feet. It chittered happily as it cavorted in the sand, and Morgana hid a small smile. Ever since she had begun to spend more time with Malzahar, the Voidling had warmed up to her, going so far to even allow her to pet it. Though it was alien in appearance, she had discovered it to be just as inquisitive and playful as any animal she had run across on Valoran.

"There is little water in the desert," said Malzahar darkly as he glared at the various Champions frolicking in the sea, his sudden speech catching Morgana by surprise. "They have not gone days without water for long enough to appreciate its kiss."

Morgana looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. He had a stony expression on his face as he considered the other Champions. She wondered if he was resentful at his own difficult childhood growing up. If he was, she would understand.

But then he chuckled evilly, almost to himself. "Perhaps if I told them of their deaths, they would be less… _exuberant_."

Despite herself, Morgana also laughed. _It __**would**__ make them less enthusiastic,_ she thought to herself with a grin. But as she did, another question struck her.

"How do you see their deaths?" she asked, watching his expression for his reaction. Malzahar looked at her in surprise.

"Their deaths?" he repeated, and she nodded. His eyes searched hers intently for a moment before he turned his glowing gaze back to the beach.

"I look at them… and it is like echoes of the future reaching me from down a long tunnel. I cannot help it, nor can I stop it; it is like a shadow that hangs over them everywhere they walk. So many different deaths in so many different places at so many different times… and all of them possible."

"Why don't you tell them, then? Warn them?"

"Because death is not set in stone. Just as their fates are not. Telling them would merely add to the ripples of time."

"Then why do you so blindly serve the Void? If fate is so tempestuous, is there no way to change it?"

Malzahar stiffened. "The Void _will_ come, Morgana. Neither you nor I nor all the Summoners in the world can stop it. It will consume us all unless we accept it."

He had grown agitated, and in his agitation, his hand had brushed against hers. Their fingertips were touching, and Morgana moved slowly to grip his fingers.

"Then what about me, Malzahar?" she asked softly. "Will I fall prey to the Void as well? Why don't you tell me of _my_ death?"

Malzahar looked at her. And then he did something she did not expect: he took her hand in his. His hand enveloped hers completely, the rough and calloused skin of his palms rubbing against the pale, smooth skin of hers. He held her delicate fingers lightly, as if afraid of harming her. His hand was warmed from the sun, and suddenly, she hoped with all her might that the shade of the parasol covered the blush darkening her face.

"It is because I do not know your fate, Morgana. You are not of this world… and thus, I cannot read your fate." A small smile twisted his mouth. "Perhaps that is why I am drawn to you; I do not know what will happen between us, nor do I wish to know. Whatever awaits us will come, Void or not. But for now, we have all the time in the world."

"For eternity and forever…" muttered Morgana as she squeezed his hand.

* * *

**I have always considered Malzahar somewhat… sad. I mean, he is a Prophet of something that is going to destroy all he ever knew and all he ever once loved. No matter how much the Void took him over, I like to believe that there's still a little speck of humanity left in him, and he's trying to get people to join him as followers in order to save as many people as he can. Sure, he's still freaking psychotic and insane, but I like to think he's doing what he's doing in a misguided effort to protect what he can. Anyways, those are my thoughts on his actions, and why I saw him as someone who would be attracted to another immortal like Morgana. Because you know, I'm like 90% certain Malzahar became immortal once he let the Void in.**

**Peace.**


	7. The Battle Bunny

Riven and Ahri: The Battle Bunny

"It's the Harrowing next week," said Ahri offhandedly as she inspected her nails.

"What was that?" muttered Riven distractedly without looking at her friend. Her attention was instead focused towards her hands, where she held a small feather-duster that she swept across the wood of her closet floor.

"The Harrowing. It's next week," repeated Ahri as she lowered her gaze from her nails to the back of Riven's head. Riven knelt before the closet with her back to Ahri, and she did not see how Ahri's eyes trailed hungrily over her slender form.

"Oh. Is it?" said Riven absentmindedly. Ahri had been talking about it almost nonstop since Riven had started cleaning.

The two friends were alone in Riven's bedroom in her apartment, with Ahri lounging easily on Riven's bed as Riven dusted her closet with the feather-duster. Though Ahri had promised to help her with the cleaning, it had not turned out that way. She seemed much more interested in the fast approaching Harrowing celebrations – and in the fact that Riven was not going to any of them. She had made herself very at home in Riven's room, lying on her side as she watched her friend clean.

"You don't sound all that enthusiastic," said Ahri as she flipped over onto her stomach with a sigh and placed her head in her palms as she looked at Riven with renewed interest; Riven had stood slightly, and was bending over in front of Ahri, giving her a full view of her rear.

"I'm not," said Riven plainly, standing fully and putting her hands on her hips. Ahri's face fell in disappointment – and not only because of what she had said.

"Why not?" she asked insistently, still keeping her eyes trained on Riven's behind. Riven sighed in exasperation.

"I've already told you hundreds of times, Ahri: I'm not going to any of the parties."

"Come on, Riven. It's your first Harrowing since you joined the League; you have to go to at least _one_ costume party! Who knows, maybe you'll even enjoy yourself." The expression on Ahri's turned decidedly more foxlike as she grinned mischievously. "Besides, all the guys will be dressed up… just imagine: Pantheon wearing nothing but a swinsuit." Ahri shuddered in delight. "I'm getting shivers just thinking about it."

"Ahri," said Riven in an annoyed tone as she turned to face her friend. "Are you just going to sit there and fantasize about men and _bother_ me or are you going to be useful?"

"Not just about men," muttered Ahri in a voice too low for Riven to hear. "And anyways, _you're_ the one who invited me to your room for some one-on-one girl time!" said Ahri with a pout. "And since you didn't take me up on my offer about the _other_ thing we could be doing…"

"Ahri, for the hundredth time: I'm _not_ going to have sex with you," said Riven stonily. "Just stop asking already."

"Come _on_, Riven," whined Ahri half-heartedly as she sat up in the bed with a fiery glint in her eye. "It'll be fun! I bet I know _just_ where to bite you to make you scre-"

"Finish that sentence and I'm pinning you down and tying your tails in a knot," warned Riven, leveling the feather-duster threateningly at Ahri. The Nine-Tailed Fox only grinned.

"Is that a threat, or are you _trying_ to turn me on?"

Riven rolled her eyes with another groan of frustration. "For the last time, Ahri, I asked you to my room to see if you wanted to help me clean, _not_ mope around and complain. _Or _try to get me to go to one of those stupid parties. And _especially_ not to try to get into my pants."

Ahri crossed her arms as she stuck out her lower lip in a pretty pout. "Well, I'm bored. Where's Irelia?" she asked quickly, her ears perking up.

"Back in Ionia," said Riven as she moved from dusting the closet and onto her bedroom desk. "She's doing something for the Guard."

Ahri sighed, falling back onto Riven's bed with her arms held out at her sides. She let out a long breath as she stared at the ceiling, tracing the path of the specks of dust that fell.

"I'm so _bored_," she moaned painfully.

"Then maybe you should actually _start_ helping me clean. You've just been staring at my clothes – and my ass – for the last half-hour."

Ahri ears perked up and she raised her head slightly to peek at Riven. "You noticed?" she asked, sounding almost hopeful.

"Of course I did," said Riven stiffly. "It felt like I was getting hit by one of Viktor's laser beams. Honestly, I don't know how you even _look_ at someone without setting them on fire. Do you look at _everyone_ like that?"

"Only the people with nice asses."

"Ahri!"

"Well, it's true," said Ahri as she let her head fall back onto the bed. "And besides, what _else_ do you want me to do? You're the only one here to look at."

"I don't know," said Riven, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "_Maybe_ you could actually help me clean."

Ahri snorted. "Clean? How? Dust off the shelves with my tails?"

"If you'd like," said Riven calmly. "Maybe that way we could finish this sooner."

Ahri sighed. "Riven, _why_ are you cleaning in the _middle_ of October?"

"I'm just doing some fall cleaning."

"Don't you mean _spring_ cleaning?"

Riven frowned. "It's not spring, though."

Ahri slapped a hand to her face in hopelessness. "Never mind."

"Besides," said Riven casually. "I don't have a costume anyways."

For a moment, Ahri looked bewildered. But then, realization dawned across her face and she sat up quickly, looking at her friend with a slack jaw. "Is _that_ the real reason you're not going? Because you don't have a costume?" she asked in amazement.

Riven shrugged indifferently. "It's _part_ of it. I also don't really want to go."

"If I find you a costume, will you go?" asked Ahri quickly.

"No."

"Come _on_, Riven," whined Ahri, slapping her hand petulantly on the bed. "You have to go to a costume party _sometime_ in your life!"

"I'd sooner wear a bunny outfit than go to one of those parties!" snapped Riven. Immediately, she regretted her choice of words; Ahri's face took on a very wolfish look as she grinned slightly.

"Really…?" she said slowly.

"I didn't mean it like that, Ahri-" she began in an effort to contain the damage.

"Of course not." Quick as a fox, she leapt off of the bed with a clap of her hands. "Well, since we're done cleaning here, I'm off!" she said cheerfully.

"Off?" repeated Riven in bewilderment. "_Where_? You told me the only reason you came to help was because there was nothing to do!"

"Oh, you know," said Ahri with a happy wave of her hand. "I'm a busy fox, Riven. I've got things to do… and costumes to buy."

And then she was gone, her white tails fluttering behind her like her own personal entourage of clouds as she ran out of the doorway. Riven was left standing with the feather-duster in one hand, a dirty rag in the other, and a single stray strand of hair falling pathetically before her face.

"But… you didn't even help me clean."

* * *

All matches were cancelled on the day of the Harrowing. As an unfortunate result, Riven found herself with far more free time than she would have liked, and she had to physically restrain herself from taking up Ahri's offer of going to one of the parties. She had to admit, with how bored she was feeling, the prospect of spending a night with friends was strangely inviting. Even _if_ her friends were all going to be scantily dressed.

As she sat alone in her room, she felt abnormally lonely. She was used to spending nights alone, so why did she feel this way just _now_? Perhaps it had been because she had seen all the decorations everyone had put up around the Institute, and the cheerful tones in which they spoke of the Harrowing. It was clearly a night to relax and unwind – things that even she knew she did far too sparingly.

She sighed with a shake of head. Whatever her thoughts were there was no changing her plans now; without a costume, she knew it would next to impossible to get into one of the parties. It seemed as though she was going to spend another night in her room, either polishing her sword or brushing up on her techniques.

Just as she resigned herself to another quiet night by herself, there was a knock at her door. Standing in curiosity, she made her way over to her door and peeked through the small eyehole set into each apartment door. Ahri's grinning face looked back at her, her hands holding something behind her back and out of sight.

"Ahri? What are you doing here?" asked Riven as she opened the door slightly.

"I have a costume for you," she said proudly. Riven craned her neck to try to look at it, but Ahri tugged it further out of eyesight.

Riven sighed before she returned her gaze to Ahri. "What do you have in mind?" she asked wearily.

"Well, you know how you said you wanted a bunny costume…?"

"I never said I _wanted_ one!" spluttered Riven but Ahri ignored her.

"Well, I remembered how I bought one last year for _last_ year's Harrowing, and-"

"Why don't you wear it, then?" asked Riven as she crossed her arms.

"Are you kidding? What kind of a rabbit has nine tails?"

"Then why in _hell_ did you buy it?"

Ahri shrugged playfully. "It looked cute."

Riven groaned and placed a hand over her face and looked at Ahri through her fingers.

"So what is it?" she grumbled.

"I found it for you in the back of my closet, and I think it _just _might fit you."

"Show me," said Riven resignedly.

"Well, open the door first, silly!"

Riven opened the door fully and looked at the outfit Ahri now held over her chest with one hand. She took in the uncomfortably tight-looking leather bodysuit, the coy rabbit ear headband, the unimaginably tight stockings, and the fluffy white bunny tail Ahri held invitingly in her other hand.

"_No_. Absolutely _not_." And she shut the door in her friend's face.

"Oh, come on, Riven!" complained Ahri from beyond the door. "It's cute! You'll look good in it!" she whined. "You've got the body for it!"

"Ahri!" said Riven, scandalized as she felt a blush run up her face. She had never quite enjoyed – or figured out how to accept – compliments about her figure.

"I'm sorry, Riven, but it's true!"

"No, thank you."

"Listen, Riven," came Ahri's voice again, and this time, it was surprisingly sincere. "I know you don't like these kinds of things, but… That's part of life, isn't it? Doing stuff we don't really like? I'm not trying to force you to come with me, or telling you that you're a bad person for not coming, but… Do you really want to spend another night alone?"

Riven bit her lip at her friend's words. _No, I don't_, she mouthed wordlessly. She heard Ahri sigh through the door.

"You're my friend, Riven," she said quietly. "You deserve to loosen up a little, you know? Lose a bit of that tension in your shoulders and _enjoy_ yourself a little more. You have a really pretty smile and a really nice laugh, Riven. You should show them off a little more."

Riven did not reply, instead remaining where she stood.

"You know my story, Riven," continued Ahri after a brief pause. "It took me a while to understand these human emotions, and it's _still_ a little hard for me. Happiness and real friendships and all that didn't come easily. But I know that I want you to be happy, Riven. Because you're my friend. If you don't think you'll enjoy yourself at one of these parties, then don't go. But if there's even a chance…" Her voice trailed off, and the silence stretched before she spoke again. "I don't know:_ I_ think you'll enjoy yourself at one of these things, and I'm hoping you give it a shot."

There was a clatter against the door as she placed the outfit on the doorknob. "Anyways," she said in a more sober tone than Riven ever remembered her every having before. "If you ever change your mind, the party's in the main cafeteria. And I'll leave the costume right here. Just… just give it a thought, huh, Riven?"

Riven waited until her footsteps had vanished before she opened the door quietly. As Ahri had promised, she had left the costume hanging on the doorknob, and Riven pulled it inside. Placing it on her bed, she stared at it with her knuckles between her teeth. She could hear Ahri's words replaying in her mind. The sincerity in the Nine-Tailed Fox's tone had been undeniable, and Riven found herself suddenly very appreciative that Ahri had even considered her a close friend.

"Oh, heavens above," she muttered under her breath as she removed her shirt. "Riven, what in the deepest pits of hell are you getting yourself into…?

* * *

The outfit was uncomfortable to say the very least. It rode up in one very particular, _uncomfortable_ area, and Riven had to use all her willpower not to reach down to… _adjust_ it. Her feet, more accustomed to war boots than high-heels, were already beginning to ache. She was glad that the hallways were deserted so that none of the other Champions could see her make a fool of herself as she attempted to walk in the teetering shoes.

All the while, she was battling internally whether to turn back that instant or continue on. The battle continued even as Riven reached the closed doors of the cafeteria. She placed a hesitant hand on the doorknob, already hearing the faint sounds of celebration coming from inside. Sighing, she thought of Ahri's words as she opened the doors and stepped inside.

* * *

**So this is my obligatory Battle Bunny Riven chapter/input. Personally, I despise the skin. Not the look of it, or anything – since it's a pretty nice-looking skin – but the whole concept behind it. I mean, you expect me to think that Riven – one of the LEAST sexualized female champions (at least in her normal skin) behind maybe like, Leona or Diana, who wear freaking full-body ARMOR – a Champion with a VERY grim backstory and who is obviously staunchly military, somehow moonlights as like a stripper? Or is secretly like, an exhibitionist who gets off by showing off her body? I know there are real-life women like that, and that's totally cool, but come on. I have more respect for Riven than THAT. I don't mind other people's stories about Battle Bunny Riven, but myself, I'm like, "There's no way Riven ever got into that outfit WILLFULLY." At least, that's my impression.**

**So, yeah. Those are my two-cents about Battle Bunny Riven and her whole costume. I also like to think that Ahri, past all the sex stuff about her, is actually very compassionate and caring, because I like to believe that Riot didn't just make a one-dimensional sex fiend to satisfy all the raging hormones of the teenage community and keep us fan-fiction writers employed. There's some deeper secrets and stories to the Nine-Tailed Fox that I'm just waiting to dig up… And behind maybe Irelia, I feel like she's Riven closest friend, even beyond all the playful sexual innuendo she directs at Riven for her own general amusement. Yeah, she has sex with people, but I feel like there's some sort of deeper meaning to that… maybe a past love or loss or something…? Hmm…**

**Peace.**


	8. Radiance

Ezreal and Lux: Radiance

Ezreal did _not_ want to be in the Institute of War.

He had better things to do than play puppet to a group of over-grown magicians in some sick form of war games. There were _so_ many other places he could be: hidden tunnels to explore, ancient ruins to investigate, and lost relics to find. He could almost taste the musky air of long-abandoned civilizations and feel the rough grating of timeless sands against his skin.

But instead, he was stuck in the Institute of War, forced to play along with the League of Legends asinine war games. A part of him – the part that had been top in his studies at Piltover's renowned Academy of Techmaturgical Science – understood the need for such an institution. He knew that both the Institute of War and the establishment of the League of Legends were essential to maintaining the uneasy peace that hovered over Valoran.

But that did not mean he had to like it.

The amulet on his wrist shimmered as if sensing his distaste, and he clenched his fist. It was this strange artifact that now never left his wrist which had gotten him all wrapped up with the League in the first place; the peculiar magic that came along with the mysterious crystal had been remarkably similar to the Summoning magic that the League of Legends utilized. As a result, and on more than one occasion, Ezreal had found himself unintentionally pulled out of far more interesting places and into the boring corridors of the League.

In an effort to stop this somewhat annoying problem, he had allowed the Summoners to inspect the amulet, and they had found a way to reduce the magical interference the amulet caused when confronted with Summoning magic. But they had only returned it to him on one condition: that he join the League of Legends.

Begrudgingly, he had accepted. After all, better to join the League than have to endure being mistakenly Summoned any more times than he had already. And once he had really looked at it, it seemed like a pretty good deal: a guaranteed place to stay should he ever need one, a steady income – so long as he won his matches, access to one of the greatest libraries on Valoran, and the chance to interact with all manner of strange beings – outside of the fighting, of course. So he had accepted.

At the present moment, however, he was sitting in the Archives, reading up on the Shurima Desert for his next excursion when he realized just how late it was. Gathering up his pens and his journals, he stood with a yawn, stretching his arms high over his head. As he did, he felt a pair of eyes fall heavily on his back, and Ezreal turned around.

The appointed patron of the Archives – Nasus, the Curator of the Sands – was looking at his amulet with a strange expression on his wolf-like face. Ezreal tucked his jacket over the crystal to hide it, and he gave Nasus a friendly wave. Nasus inclined his head slowly in return, and after another moment of staring, he turned back to his books.

Ezreal sighed and shook his head, the golden locks of hair shaking like straw. He did not know many of the Champions in the League; he had never really had much of an interest to get to know them outside of the Fields of Justice. After all, it was only his first week in the League, and there were more pressing matters to attend to than having friendly and neighborly manners.

But, because of his affinity for the Archives, he had already come to know the Curator of the Sands, as well as Ryze, the Rogue Mage – another frequent visitor to the Archives, just like himself. Though the tattooed mage was often ornery and irritable, he seemed to respect Ezreal's desire for exploration, and would help him if he asked.

Ezreal tucked his journals under his arm and hastily returned the books he had been reading to their proper places. He did not want to be reprimanded by Nasus for leaving them out again: there was something about his slow voice and his unblinking eyes that made one feel very small and insignificant.

He kept his footsteps as quiet as possible as he walked out of the Archives, careful so as not to disturb anyone. As he walked out of the main room of the Archives and into the hallway that led to the exit, a scowl crossed his face. He had just remembered that he was set for a full schedule of League matches tomorrow, and his expression darkened unhappily. Mumbling angrily under his breath, he pushed open the doors to the Archives harshly and strode out into the corridors outside. Shifting his journals under his arm, he looked down at the worn books in his hands. They contained all the sketches and notes he had made throughout all of his travels and excursions into the forgotten parts of Valoran, and were priceless to him. And in the wrong hands, they were as dangerous as they were priceless.

He was still looking at them as he turned a corner, and as a result, he did not see the other person rounding the same corner. The two of them collided roughly, and Ezreal stumbled over the other person, only just catching himself on his palms before he fell. The books that had been in his hands scattered across the floor, joined by a handful of books that the other person had been carrying.

"Ow," he said plainly as he straightened onto his knees and rubbed his forehead where he had collided with the other person. Ezreal looked down at the other person, who was sitting on her behind and also rubbing her own forehead.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she was saying as she began to gather up her books Though Ezreal could not see her face, he could see the long length of golden hair that fell down her back, held in place by a plain headband. "I was in a hurry and I didn't see you!"

"It's fine," he said reassuringly as he picked up his own books. Once he was done, he stood and held out a hand to help her up. "It's my fault, too; I should have been paying attention to where I was going. I-"

The rest of his words died in his throat as the girl looked up. Her eyes were the same brilliant blue of a clear summer day, and they sparkled with unmistakable intelligence. She had a slight, heart-shaped face that was framed by hair the color of molten gold. Her fingers were thin and delicate as she took his hand and used it to pull herself to her feet.

For a moment or two, the two of them simply stared at each other, both of them speechless. Ezreal could see that a light flush had spread over her cheeks, and wondered if he had one of the same on his own face. He was about to speak, when she seemed to come to her senses at last.

"I'm going to be late!" she said suddenly as a faint tolling of clocks echoed through the hallway they were in. "I- uhh, sorry! I mean, thanks- I mean, bye!"

The last sight Ezreal had of her was her golden hair flowing behind her as she disappeared quickly down the hallway. His hand was still comically outstretched, as though he were locked in the position she had left him in. Slowly, it fell to his side, and he readjusted the books in his hands absentmindedly.

"Bye…" he murmured to the empty hallway.

* * *

Ezreal looked at the ceiling as he lay on his bed, resting against his pillows. His hands were behind his head and he stared up at the tiles overhead without really seeing them. It was late at night, but he found that he could not fall asleep, even though he felt completely exhausted. All that was on his mind was the girl from before.

_Who is she…?_ He asked himself as he turned over onto his side. _A Summoner…? An apprentice magician…?_

Ezreal closed his eyes. "Whoever she is," he muttered sleepily. "I'll find out in the morning."

* * *

Ezreal walked out of the Pit without speaking to anyone; losing all four of his scheduled matches in a row would be enough to put _anyone_ into a bad mood. The crystal on his wrist shone a dull color as if reflecting his poor mood, and he walked back to his apartment in the Piltover wing without sparing anyone a second glance. He kicked the door open angrily and stormed inside, slamming it shut behind him.

All he had to look forward to now was spending some more time in the Archives for his planned trip to the Shurima Desert. Not much of a mood-improver, but right now, he would take any distraction he could get. Gathering his books and pens in his arms, he was about to head out the door when he noticed something strange about one of his books. Though it looked like one of his journals, upon closer inspection, it was obvious that it was not. He simply stared at it for a moment or two before panic struck him.

If this one was not his journal, then where _was_ his journal?

If he had lost it, then he ran the risk of someone using it for less-than-scrupulous reasons if it fell into the wrong hands. Immediately, he thought back to the girl from yesterday; when they had run into each other, she must have taken one of his journals by mistake, and he must have taken one of the books she had been holding. In the excitement of running into each other, they must not have been paying attention to their books. As the thought of the book crossed his mind, he looked down at it.

It looked very similar to one of his journals, and it was obviously a journal of sorts. Overrun by curiosity, he opened it slowly and looked inside. Immediately, he paused.

The journal – because it _was _a journal – was filled with numerous sketches and drawings of all manners of subjects: from the flowers he had seen in the Institute Gardens to studies of architecture from around the Institute, even to several portraits of some of the other Champions in the League. All the drawings were impeccably done, and the drawings seemed to breathe with vibrant life and colors. Mesmerized, he ran a finger over the smooth paper of one of the pages, tracing a drawing that he recognized as the palace of the capital of Demacia. Engrossed by the drawings, he did not notice that several minutes had passed before he realized he had flipped through all the pages of the journal.

Standing suddenly – and painfully aware of his intrusion of the girl's privacy – he closed the journal briskly. It was obvious that the journal meant a lot to the girl, and he wished to return it as soon as possible. And if he managed to catch her name in the process, then all the better.

Pulling his trademark goggles over his hair, he donned his exploring jacket and walked quickly out his apartment. His mind was already working on a plan to track her down: he would need to find a Summoner to ask them whether they knew if she was a Summoner or just someone at the Institute on other business. Making his way over to the Summoner Wing of the Institute, he stepped nimbly around the crowds of robed magicians before arriving at the room he needed.

It was several moments after he knocked before he heard noises coming from within the apartment, and soon enough, the door opened.

"Ezreal, what are you doing here?" asked Bal'han in obvious surprise at seeing him. Bal'han was the Summoner who had conducted the Judgment for Ezreal, and as such, had offered his services in case Ezreal ever needed information or needed help finding his way around the Institute and the League. A somewhat young man from the Shurima Desert, Bal'han was nearly half a head taller than Ezreal, with deeply tanned skin and short black hair that he kept cut short. A single gold tooth glistened in his mouth as he spoke, and he opened the door wider at realizing who it was.

"I have a question for you, Bal'han. Can I come in?"

"Sure, sure," said Bal'han quickly, stepping aside so as to allow Ezreal inside.

Bal'han's living quarters were small but reasonable, and he led Ezreal to a simple chair in the sparsely furnished living room. Ezreal's nose was filled with the unmistakable scent of Shuriman spice, and it prickled pleasantly at his senses.

"What can I do for you, Ezreal?" he asked once he had returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He placed one before Ezreal before sitting down in a chair across from the Prodigal Explorer. Ezreal took a sip of the water before placing the glass back down.

Meekly, Ezreal produced the journal he had from where he had placed it in his knapsack.

"I ran into a girl here at the Institute yesterday, and I seem to have taken her journal by accident. I have no idea who she is, but I feel really bad about taking it, so I want to return it to her."

Bal'han reached for the journal, and Ezreal handed it hesitantly to him. "I see," he said, flipping idly through the book; Ezreal felt almost angry at how casually he looked at the drawings. "And _how_ am I supposed to help?"

"I figured she might be a Summoner, so I was wondering if you knew her."

"What does she look like?" asked Bal'han, placing the journal back in Ezreal's hands and looking up.

"A little bit short than me, blond, really blue eyes, kind of pretty…" Ezreal's voice trailed off.

Bal'han looked at him in confusion, before looking back down at the journal. "Can I see that again?" he asked urgently. Ezreal nodded and Bal'han took the book again, flipping through it faster than before.

"She isn't a Summoner, Ezreal," said Bal'han, once more returning the journal to Ezreal. "She's a Champion: Lux, the Light of Demacia or something unoriginal like that."

Ezreal blinked in surprise. "She's a _Champion_? Well, then why haven't I seen her in any of my matches?"

"You joined the League what, a week ago?"

Ezreal nodded. "A little longer than that. Maybe a week and a half?"

"Well, Lux has been on a mission for Demacia for the past couple weeks. She only just got back yesterday, I assume, if you ran into her then."

Ezreal slumped in his chair. _A Champion…_ Of all the things, he had not even considered her being a Champion. She had looked so fragile, so small…

He shook his head; just two matches ago, he had just been at the receiving end of the fury of Annie Hastur, the Dark Child. If anything, that horrifying little girl proved that in the League, appearances meant nothing.

"Wow. I didn't think she was a Champion," muttered Ezreal. "She sure didn't look like one…"

"Welcome to the League of Legends," laughed Bal'han as he leaned back in his chair.

"Yeah, yeah. So can you help me find her?" asked Ezreal. He held up the journal. "I really want to get this back to her."

"She should be in the Demacian Wing," said Bal'han. "That's all _I_ know, but if you ask around, I'm sure you'll find her."

"Thanks, Bal'han. You were a lot of help," said Ezreal gratefully as he stood and shook the Shuriman Summoner's hand.

"Anytime, Ezreal," said Bal'han as he led him to the door. "Oh, and one more thing: you're scheduled for another full day of matches tomorrow." Bal'han smiled weakly. "I guess all the Summoners really want to try out the newest Champion. Sorry, man."

Ezreal groaned as he shouldered his knapsack. "Great," he muttered. "See you later then, Bal'han."

"Until next time."

Bal'han watched the Prodigal Explorer leave, the spring in his step gone at the news of his impending full day of matches. As he watched him, a frown crossed his face and his raised a hand to rub his chin.

"Should I have told him about Garen?" he muttered to himself.

* * *

Finding Lux's room once he had found his way to the Demacian Wing was a simple task: he had asked a nearby Summoner, who had directed him down a long hallway marked with various names. Many, he did not recognize, but some – like Lightshield – he did. The Demacian Wing was decorated in the same style as the Demacian capital itself, with shimmering silvers and golds lining the bright hallways.

At last, he stopped before the door marked "Crownguard," and lifted a hesitant hand to knock on the door. Once he had gathered his courage, he knocked meekly. He nearly jumped his height as the door opened suddenly.

Instead of the girl he had expected to open the door, he came face-to-face with a chest full of shining armor. Swallowing, he looked up into the face of his sometimes opponent, Garen. The military commander appraised him with clear blue eyes – the very same, he realized, as Lux.

_They're siblings_, he realized suddenly. Immediately, his heart sank.

Garen crossed his arms, a small frown crossing his face as he looked down at Ezreal. "State your business, Ezreal," he said gruffly – though not totally unkindly. He spoke with the military precision and curtness of a soldier.

"I- uhh, is Lux here?" he asked, his voice much higher pitched than he ever remembered it being. One of Garen's eyebrows rose in suspicious curiosity, and he nodded slowly.

"I have something of hers, and I wanted to return it to her…" Ezreal's voice faded away quietly as he looked at his feet. For a moment, he was certain that Garen would ask him to simply leave whatever it was he needed to return and then ask him to leave. But to his surprise, the soldier grunted and looked over his shoulder.

"Luxanna!" he called. "There is someone at the door who wishes to speak to you!"

After the briefest of pauses, Ezreal heard a faint, somewhat angry reply from within: "How many times have I told you not to call me that, Garen? Call me Lux! _Lux_!"

Garen merely chuckled, shaking his head. He looked at Ezreal with a noticeably kinder expression. "Would you like to come in?" he asked, gesturing inside.

"Sure…?" said Ezreal, and Garen stepped aside to allow him inside.

The apartment Garen and Lux shared had the unmistakable feeling of a military family: the decoration were minimal and measured, and there were little to no superfluous or unused space. The only visible pictures were a handful that was propped up on the mantle of the fireplace. Everything was neatly kept and clean, and Ezreal thought he saw traces of Lux's hand in the curtains and in the various flowers that were placed in delicate vases around the living room.

His view to the rest of the apartment was blocked by the angle of the connecting hallway, and he resigned himself to sitting down on one of the sofas. Garen remained standing, and Ezreal wondered at why he was dressed in his soldier's uniform when it was obvious he had free time: Garen did not seem like a complete robotic soldier who wore his uniform at all times. The several times he had faced him on the League, he had at least shown the _inklings_ of a personality.

"What is it, Garen?" came a breathless voice from the hallway leading deeper into the apartment. Lux was still fixing her hair as she walked into the living room, and did not notice how Ezreal's jaw had dropped when he saw her.

She was dressed in a pale blue dress, with her hair done up in a tasteful bun held in place by a silver and gold pin. The dress had a single strap with a brooch in the shape of an eagle – the symbol of Demacia – and it complimented her perfectly. Garen seemed to notice his expression, and he cleared his throat, causing Lux to look up.

At the sight of him, her hands fell immediately from her face, and she flushed a deep crimson.

"Garen!" she squealed. "What is- why is- what's going on?"

"Calm down, Lux," said Garen, his voice strained with the obvious effort of holding back laughter. "Ezreal stopped by because he had something of yours and he wanted to return it."

With great external struggle, Lux seemed to pull herself together, and she straightened.

Realizing he was staring at her, Ezreal cleared his throat and looked away. "Uhh, yeah," he said dumbly. "I have your journal – I think we might have traded them by accident when we ran into each other yesterday."

Reaching into his knapsack, he pulled out the journal and extended it. Lux took it lightly in her hands and opened it tenderly, looking at it wistfully.

"Journal?" asked Garen in confusion. "What journal?"

Lux looked up in surprise; she seemed to have forgotten he was there. Hastily, she hid the book behind her back. "It's nothing!"

Garen raised an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you be going?" she asked desperately. "It's getting late, and you don't want to stand up your date!"

To Ezreal's amazement, Garen's face flushed just as deeply as his sister's had, and he straightened as though someone had struck him with a cattle prod.

"It's not a 'date,'" said Garen stiffly, though his face was still dark. "It is merely a meeting of Noxian and Demacian forces to discuss potential-"

"But _she's _going to be there, isn't there?" pressed Lux, sensing her advantage. "And you don't want to keep her waiting…"

Garen narrowed his eyes at her. "You're supposed to be there as well, Luxanna."

"Don't worry, Garen," said Lux briskly. "I'll catch up; you go on ahead and I'll be right behind you. This shouldn't take long."

Garen looked at them, his gaze flicking between the two of them before he grunted. "_Don't_ be late, Luxanna," he said finally, stepping out the door.

Lux waited until his footsteps had faded away before collapsing onto the sofa opposite Ezreal's with an exhale.

"Mentioning _her_ is always a surefire way to get him out of the room," said Lux, grinning at Ezreal.

"Who?"

"Kat-" Lux only just caught herself, clamping a hand over her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. "No one. It's not important," she said immediately, waving her hand desperately. For a moment, the two of them simply sat in silence, both red-faced. Then Lux spoke again.

"I, uhh- thanks," she said weakly. "For bringing back my journal, I mean. I didn't even realize it was lost until now."

"Your brother didn't seem to know you had one," noted Ezreal, remembering Garen's reaction when he had mentioned it.

Lux shrugged. "He doesn't- _didn't_ know I had one."

"Is it… _bad_ to have one?" asked Ezreal slowly; he was unsure of Demacian military etiquette, but having a journal seemed harmless enough. He had tons, after all.

"No, but it's complicated." She sighed and closed her eyes. "Sometimes, doing research for Demacia gets a little… _boring_, and I can't help myself. I just go into the Gardens or go outside to draw some stuff or write how I'm feeling." She looked at him with another flush on her face. "That's where I was, you know. When I ran into you yesterday: I was coming back from the Gardens."

"But you had a bunch of other books in your hands," said Ezreal.

"Yeah, well, I had to make it _look_ like I was doing something productive," said Lux with another disarming and radiant smile. Ezreal laughed.

"I know that feeling," he said; one of the things he had disliked about the Academy of Techmaturgical Science was how something _always _had to be productive. There was never a moment of relaxation – and he could emphasize with Lux about how she felt.

"Well," said Lux, standing, and Ezreal stood as well. "Thanks for returning it. It means a lot to me to have it back."

"It was nothing," said Ezreal, scratching his head. Lux looked at her journal for another moment before she seemed to remember something.

"I totally forgot!" she said, rushing off before Ezreal could ask what had happened. When she returned, she was holding something he recognized very well: his own journal.

"I totally forgot that I had yours, if you had mine," she said, handing it to him. Ezreal flipped through the familiar pages slowly.

"Thanks," he said. He knew that he should be happy to have it back, for some reason, he was sad. Maybe because it meant he did not have Lux's journal anymore.

"Listen, Lux…" he said slowly, not able to meet her eyes. "I know it's probably a gross invasion of privacy, but I kind of… looked at your journal. Your drawings are really good, if you don't mind me saying."

"Oh."

Lux's voice was not at all angry like had expected, and when he looked back at her, he was surprised to see her looking at her feet with her face even redder than before.

"Tha- thanks," she said in embarrassment. "I've never shown them to anyone before."

"You should," he said. "They're really good."

Lux did not say anything again, still looking resolutely at her feet.

"Well," said Ezreal at last. "I should get going. I don't want Garen to get suspicious if I keep you here too long."

Lux nodded wordlessly, and they walked to the door. The lock clicked loudly behind them as she closed the door behind her. Ezreal still held his journal in his hand – and seized with a sudden idea – he thrust it into Lux's hands.

"Here," he said before she could protest. "It's the least I could do; I looked at your journal, so you can look at mine. Whenever you're done with it, you can just give it back to me."

Lux looked at the book in her hands, tracing the worn cover with a finger before tucking it away safely in her arms.

"I'll take good care of it," she promised, smiling another one of her radiant smiles.

"I'm sure you will," reassured Ezreal with a smile of his own. "So, uhh… see you around?" he asked weakly.

Lux nodded. "You bet."

He watched her go, noticing the backwards glance she cast him before she disappeared down the hallway. For a moment, he simply stood there outside her apartment. Then he shook his head, the image of her radiant smile burnt into his brain. Even the promise of another full day of matches tomorrow could not dampen his spirits.

Maybe… just _maybe_… being in the League would not be so bad after all.

* * *

"What's that in your hands, Lux?" asked Katarina Du Couteau, craning her neck to get a better look at the journal she had tucked away. At the sound of her words, Lux covered the journal with her free hand and smiled vaguely at the assassin.

The two women were seated next to one another at the end of a long table in one of the numerous dining rooms in the Institute. The meeting between Noxian and Demacian forces was over now, and as a show of good faith, a dinner had been set up for both sides to eat and mingle together. Personally, Lux wondered at the state of mind of whoever had organized it; Demacians and Noxians in the same room, with sharp silverware? _Not_ a good idea.

The only redeeming factor of the dinner – and the political meeting – had been that she had been placed next to Katarina Du Couteau, and her sarcastic, dry, and utterly hilarious muttered commentary of the political meeting had been hysterical to listen to. After their mutual fiasco in losing Annie Hastur and finding her in the care of Brand, the two women had grown closer than even Lux had expected: Katarina acted as a sort of older sister that she had never had.

And it was just a plus that whenever they were together, Garen looked like he had a noose around his neck or like he had swallowed a jar of famed Zaunite poison. At the present moment, he was watching the pair of women from his place at the table with an expression that fluctuated between barely restrained panic and completely unadulterated fear. Katarina followed Lux's gaze and, noticing Garen staring at them, blew him a kiss before biting her lip suggestively.

The two women laughed under their breath as Garen flushed and stared resolutely down at the food before him.

"So," said Katarina, nudging Lux with her elbow, though her eyes were still on Garen. "You going to tell me what's in your hands?"

"It's nothing," said Lux with a small smile. "It's nothing at all."


End file.
